


Beware your dreams

by Zeta_Mei



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: And Arya won't kill the stable boy maybe, Canon compliant more or less, Coming back to Braime it's a slow burn, Don't worry too much for B&J, Even Cersei but I wonder if it's possible, Fluff and Angst, Many POVS but it's focused on J&B, Maybe Ned too, Obviously they detest each other at the beginning, Robert Baratheon has a chance here, Sansa is still a bit dumb, Sexism and other evil stuff like canon, Short chapters and frequent updates, Someone dies, They're younger and even more stupid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:55:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 126
Words: 105,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24655711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeta_Mei/pseuds/Zeta_Mei
Summary: 298 AC.Jaime Lannister shoves a child down a tower, then makes a wish.In the meanwhile, Brienne of Tarth breaks his betrothed's collarbone and dares a wish.Fools. They still don't know that one has to be cautious about wishes. Because, as the songs say, a wish is a dream your heart makes, and, sometimes, dreams come true.Some (rare) times, even a drunkard king can stay sober enough time to realize that his life and his family, brothers included, are really messed up and...Brienne finds herself catapulted in King's Landing at seventeen. Good luck, Jaime!
Relationships: Jaime Lannister & Brienne of Tarth, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 460
Kudos: 199





	1. Prologue

298 AC

WINTERFELL

His hands didn’t tremble. He was deadly calm and his golden hair was in order, as usual. He couldn’t really understand all that confusion, all that noise.

 _For what? For an insolent brat, who liked climbing towers too much._ From the diamond-shaped glass he saw Tyrion rushing towards the Great Keep. The shouts must have pulled him out a whore’s bed, judging from the way his mismatched eyes were red with lust and sleep.

For once, he felt a sting of envy, for his brother was free to love and fuck, and sleep into a wench’s arms, every time he desired it. _I only wanted to stay with Cersei for a while. I’d gladly have my sword hand cut off, to have my true love holding me in her gentle arms for one long, starry night._

Someone was calling for him, interrupting his stupid dream. Before leaving the room, Jaime lingered at the window and smiled. The sunset had wrapped the sky in a crimson cloak, almost drowning in blood the pale, shy evening star.

 _A good sign_ , he decided.

***

EVENFALL HALL

Her hands still trembled. She didn’t dare to look in the mirror, she already knew she was red and unkempt and uglier than usual. _But free, I’m free._

 _For a while, at least. Until Father will chose another old man inclined to forgive my freakishness, in change of Tarth._ The maiden shivered, for a sudden chill had crept up her spine, and she abandoned the mace on her bed, to sneak out the room and climb furiously the steps till the terrace on the top of the Blue Tower.

The smell and the sight of the sea immediately calmed her and for a few moments she forgot Wagstaff and his hideous spotted head, and found herself dancing again in Lord Renly’s elegant arms.

_I only wanted it never to end. I know it’s just a foolish dream, yet how much I wish to have, one day, not too far away, a golden cloak with an onyx stag wrapped on my shoulders, in a sept filled with all the colors of the rainbow._

All of sudden, Septa Roelle’s voice reached her and Brienne resigned herself to meet her father’s wroth. Unbidden, her glance came back to the sea, and she caught in her breath. The waves looked like liquid, molten gold, with a few sparkles of deep green, as if they had stolen the brightness of sun and emeralds.

 _It’s gorgeous, too beautiful for the such as me,_ she sighed.


	2. The king is sober, all hail the king!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NED'S POV

THE KINGSROAD, TWO DAY'S RIDE FROM DARRY

Two days had passed, but the smell of Lady’s blood still hung to his hands. Under the white-and-silver cloak, Ned brooded and felt suddenly tired, even if they had been riding only for a couple of hours, when he noticed that the king had slowed his destrier’s pace.

For a change, Robert wasn’t in his cups, traveling in that ridiculous castle on wheels.

“Ned, where were you?”

“Just behind Your Grace’s graceful mount.” _So that I can enjoy better his shit._

“Still angry, Ned?”

The Lord of Winterfell turned towards his King, and met his childhood friend’s eyes pleading for a truce.

“Not angry”, he finally answered and it wasn’t a lie.

“Only disappointed, and you’re right about it, maybe. I did all wrong, in my life, Ned”, Robert’s voice sounded like an old man’s voice, now. “Even my dreams were wrong. I dreamed to wed the most beautiful of all ladies, and the Father above punished me with Cersei, while I needed Lyanna. My Lyanna, the most honest and bravest of all girls, with fair eyes and a kind heart. A maiden.”

 _A warrior maiden, and too honest for you, maybe_ , thought Ned, keeping silent.

“It still haunt me that Cersei hasn't come to me as maiden. After all, I had to wed peace and Lord Tywin’s gold, not his daughter’s virtue, or so Jon explained me. Now that he’s dead, it all sounds useless, and even dangerous, now that I’m surrounded by Lannisters”, the king’s eyes filled with loath and rage, “You saw what Cersei managed to do with Joffrey in these years.”

It took a while before Ned could reply. “I don’t know, Robert. He’s still a lad, maybe you could send him to Dragonstone, as Stannis’ ward.”

Robert’s face darkened. “I can’t count on my beloved brothers. I gave Dragonstone to Stannis and Storm’s End to Renly, when I should have kept both of them for my own sons, and what I gained? Bitterness from the first, mockeries from the second. You’re more a brother for me than those two, you’ll be Joffrey’s mentor and you’ll made a man of him, worth of your lovely Sansa - Cersei be damned, along with all Casterly Rock.”

“Robert”, Ned started saying, feeling his stomach lurch. His daughters’ tears haunted him like the grey direwolf’s last trusting glance, and he was forced to admit to himself that the sight of Renly constituted an authentic relief. He made his palfrey stop to consent the Lord of Storm’s End to join them.

“Brother. Lord Stark.” The youngest of Baratheon brothers was literally shining in his green velvet doublet, embroidered with cloth-of-gold.

“Oh, here you are”, lamented the king, “We were just talking about you, Renly.”

“Me?”

“Have you the disgrace to see another Renly here, Ned?”

“Lord Renly’s presence is unmistakable.”

“Of course, like his scent of rosewater”, replied flatly the king, wheeling his mount towards his brother, who looked imperturbable.

“For Gods’ sake, Renly, you should spend less moments…”

“Fewer moments”, corrected the youth, with a sly smile.

“Go bugger yourself. And bring Stannis, and maester Cressen, with all his stupid scrolls”, bellowed the king. 

As Your Grace commands”, the grin hadn’t faded on Renly’s handsome face, as he waved his smooth fingers to greet before leaving.

“Go, little brother, and come back with a bride.”

This time the younger Baratheon froze on the saddle, and gaped at his sober and determinate king.

“A maiden, highborn, the daughter of one of your bannermen”, Robert specified, “Better if she’s the first daughter. Chose well, good hips and a loyal nature, or I’ll chose for you the ugliest wench of all the Stormlands.”

“Robert, I’m still young…”

“Storm’s End will have an heir into a year or I’ll give it to Tommen. Don’t make that face, you might wed even your Knight of Flowers for all I care, if he could bear new little Baratheons in the world”, the woods echoed the king’s sharp words, but luckily Robert deigned to lower his tone when he went on speaking. “The stags are few and scattered like leaves, whilst our foes are numerous and grow every day stronger, here and in Essos. So, do your duty to your king and to your family once a week, and fuck who the hell you want in all the other days. Once you’ll be a father, Renly, you’ll thank me, and the Hand who opened my eyes.”

Threw off guard, Ned wanted to say something, but he did shut his mouth as the young stag dismounted and bowed gracefully.

“Lord Stark, you’ll have my eternal gratitude”, Renly said, with a queer twinkle in his blue-green eyes. “I beg Your Grace’s leave, to gallop forward to next keep. I have a letter to write and a wedding to prepare.”

“Oh”, a warm smile had settled on Robert’s face and it felt nice to see it again. “Have you already chosen the lady?”

“Highborn and honorable into a fault. With good hips, a gentle heart and she doesn’t lack wits.”

“Who’s that pearl? Does she really exist?”

“Oh, she does exist and it’s really hard not to notice her, even from a certain distance”, Renly laughed and Robert looked puzzled for a few instants, then he flinched on the saddle as if he had been thunderstruck.

“You’re not referring to…”

“… the ugliest lady of all the Stormlands? Of course, I am.”

The king burst out in a sincere, booming laugh and Ned realized that, under stones and stones of fat, his old friend wasn’t doomed, not yet, and for the first time since they have met in Winterfell he felt hopeful, and not only dutiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading :)


	3. Betrothals go, betrothals come.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BRIENNE'S POV

EVENFALL HALL 

“Brienne, what should I do with you? Look at the state of you”, Septa Roelle rolled her grey eyes to the painted ceiling in a way that could have just one meaning. _Troubles._

Yet the mirror showed the same coarse features as always, a crooked nose, a mouth too big and crowded of teeth, a jaw too marked and strong for a woman, and mocking freckles everywhere.

“Comb your hair, at least, your lord father is coming upstairs.”

 _Here, in my room?_ The heavy book that she was reading fell on the thick carpet with a soft sound, and Brienne wondered what she might have done of so serious. She recalled rapidly her day, she had trained, she had polished her armor, then she had escaped to the kitchen to have some fruit and listen to old Shaggy Miles' tales, maybe she had neglected her needle work, but that was so normal that even the septa didn't mind that much. And she had hoped the Wagstaff accident was almost over, after more than three weeks of sullen silence from her father.

The door opened while septa Roella was still struggling to give a sense to the tangled mass of straw that the maid wore on her thick head like a crown.

“Brienne, child.” Her stomach twitched, listening to the ' _really serious matters'_ tone her father was using. The septa took her leave and the unruly daughter swallowed and squared her shoulders, to face the storm.

“Father”, she said, waiting and observing, like ser Goodwin had taught her. Lord Selwyn's eyes were calm, as usual when it came to important issues, but she knew their blue to well not to understand he was somehow troubled.

“You're betrothed, Brienne.” Straight to the target, but his daughter was used to wear an armor and didn't flinch, nor said a word, even if something inside her was bleeding. “I can't refuse this match, I can't and you can't, yet... I confess that I'm worried. King's Landing is no place for the such of you. It could became difficult to keep the silence about... you know.”

 _Her name was Alyssa and she was beautiful, unlike her too tall and clumsy daughter,_ Brienne considered bitterly, but she limited herself to a nod. Goose bumps had covered her skin at the thought of leaving Tarth, to be wed... and bedded, but the confusion in her mind was far more unbearable than fear.

“I won't ask you to have secrets with your lord husband, yet you'll need to be careful and probably I'll have to have a little conversation with the king.” This sounded like pure folly, the Evenstar hadn't met king Robert since before the Rebellion and their strained relationship had mitigated only in the last years, after she had been sent to Storm's End as ser Cortnay's ward, for a while. Stunned and stiff, Brienne make out a chocked sound, which resembled more a piglet's wail than a lady's sigh. However, it touched Lord Selwyn's chords, because he looked at her with such warmth, then she couldn't help but fly into his strong arms as if she were still a child, and not a woman grown and flowered.

“Be brave, child, be brave”, her father whispered, stroking gently her back, “You know, a part of me is so happy that you'll wed Steffon's son. He was a true knight, and not only a cousin to me. I owe him so much.”

 _It can't be true, it can't be._ She pulled away from his hug enough to stare at Lord Selwyn's face, perfectly shaved and still handsome notwithstanding he had passed his fifties.

The answer she was desperately looking for was in the gentleness with which he nodded to her, making Brienne's heart skip more than a beat. _I'm going to wed Lord Renly Baratheon, I'm going to wed Lord Renly, I'm going to wed Renly, Renly, I will call him Renly..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading :)


	4. Hips don't lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JAIME'S POV

KING'S LANDING - THE QUEEN'S OWN BEDROOM 

“Now go”, she commanded. Since they had come back from the North, Cersei was really exaggerating with her thrice damned precautions.

“You're dressed now, I'm also dressed, what the hell can happen even if someone enters? You're my sister.”

“I'm your Queen, you forget it too often. And you're far too arrogant, if you'd act less recklessly...”

“... you'd even fail to recognize me. Don't bother me again with that Stark boy.” _Or I'll be obliged to tear off that damned corset that you insisted to keep wearing._ A part of Jaime hoped that she would fight him, but she preferred glare at him and step close to the tall, arched window, to open it and let the mild air invade the lavish chamber and steal the smell of their sweat and of his seed.

The sound of a pleasant laugh resounded till him and Cersei made a strange face, wrinkling her pretty nose in a way that would have required a kiss, if only she were so kind to recoil in the comforting shadow of the room, where nobody could see them.

“Come here, Jaime”, she said, her golden curls waving with expectation, “I want you to see the freakish lady that has arrived just yesterday from her dreadful island. Gods, I can't see the day in which she will be formally presented at court.”

“Which lady?”, he asked, leaning from the window, already bored of this conversation. All he could see was Renly talking to a knight taller than him, with shoulders so broad that Lord Tyrell's son seemed a shy maiden in comparison. _Well, no shy, nor maiden, that one._ Ser Loras' laugh resounded again, loud and nice like a hundred ringing bells, and Jaime could almost smell the flowery scent in which the cocky guy used to drown himself.

“The one with the doublet quartered in blue and pink”, Cersei looked suddenly annoyed with him, “It's a pity you can't see her face from here, it's even uglier than the rest. And the rest... Only the Stormlands can birth such horrors.”

“Is that a woman?”, Jaime chuckled, seeing the reflection of his amazement in the smug, emerald glance that she reserved him.

“Of course she is. Just look at her hips”, retorted his shining twin, with a wicked smile. “The cow will bear giant, hideous children to the brave man who will dare to mount her.”

Jaime let his merciless eyes linger on the stranger's long legs, till the revealing curve of her buttocks, and a laugh came to his lips, sudden and full of a childish, spontaneous mirth. “The bravest of all men, I suppose.”

Cersei furrowed her brow, when he closed the window. All this talking about mounting had stirred something in him and, this time, he managed to set free her perfectly white breasts, before she slapped him and thrown his love and his frustrations out the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.  
> Sorry, if you're a Cersei fan, I love her because GRR Martin dedicated very funny (and gloomy) chapters to her, but I think that she's too stupid to save herself from herself.


	5. About Queens-to-be and breeches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SANSA'S POV

KING'S LANDING - THE HAND'S ROOMS

“It's all too exaggerated, too costly, Jory.”

Waiting for her father to get free from his new duties, Sansa caressed fondly her new dress, feeling a little guilty. Just a bit. She needed silks and velvets if she wanted not to shame her House at the dinner in the Queen's own quarter. _Silks and courtesy will be my armor now that Lady..._ The girl never concluded the thought, it ached too bad.

On her side, Jeyne must have sensed something because she gently reached for her arm, and leaned to whisper into Sansa's ears. “You look so wonderful, this blue match with your eyes... if only you were older enough to wear a necklace with sapphires. I'm sure the prince will cover you in gems, one day”, her brown-haired friend giggled and blushed, when Alyn entered the room with a certain haste, followed by Arya in her hopeless rags.

There were a few lines around Lord Eddard's eyes when he lifted them to welcome the guard. “What's on, Alyn? Other extravagances which will furthermore indebt the Crown to Lord Tywin?”

“M'lord, Lord Baelish demands a word”, answered the aspiring knight.

Sighing, the new Hand rose to his feet, and Arya began bothering him and tugging at his shirt, like the rude and impatient little beast she had always been. _It's not fair, I came before everyone, but I know my place and I waited, waited... and now Arya pretends all Father's attention about her silly stuff, whilst I have to send a message back to the Queen._ Pocking away a rebel lock of her auburn hair, Sansa stepped forward.

“You must see her, you must”, her sister started repeating over and over, her cheeks too pink and excited, “she's tall like an oak and her arms are thick like Hodor's.”

“That can't be, Arya”, the Lord of Winterfell replied quietly, a hint of sadness in his face. He gave a nod of acknowledgment to his elder daughter that seemed almost a greeting, but she had still to talk with him.

“Arya, end your...”, she tried vainly to say.

“Shut up, Sansa. I saw her, Father! You must come and see, maybe she's still in the yard with the king's brother. She wears breeches and not stupid dresses.”

“A true lady doesn't wear breeches”, Sansa almost cried out, and Jeyne sent a loyal, terrible glance to Winterfell's worst plague, who pounded her feet to the ground and began shouting.

“You're stupid like your dress, then.”

“Arya!”, protested their father.

“Tell her, _please_ tell her that the Lady of Bear Island is a lady _and_ a warrior.”

Alyn and Jory shared an amused smile, but Lord Eddard looked serious when he spoke, “It's true, but Lady Mormont and all women in her island had to learn how to defend themselves from the ironmen. The southron ladies, instead, can count on high walls and knights to protect them...”

“Like Mother”, Sansa broke in, triumphant. A strand of limp hair fell on Arya's long face, as she started studying her toes and biting her lip.

“Like your lady mother”, the Lord moved quickly towards the door, and Sansa understood she had won a battle, only to lose the war.

“Father, I have still to talk with you. I've waited and...”, she begged, twisting one of her braids in her pale fingers.

“Later, Sansa. And I'll find the time to come and seek this mysterious she-warrior, Arya”, he hesitated before leaving the room, looking at both his daughters, as if he wanted to impress their figures in his memory, “How much I'd want your lady mother to be here in King's Landing, children.”

_I'm no child. I'm the prince's betrothed, and one day I'll be a queen, and a queen wears no breeches,_ Sansa considered, yet, for an instant, the child hiding into the queen-to-be thought that she would gladly give up to any crown, just to be with Mother for a while. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Kudos and comments are always welcome


	6. The freakish Maid of Tarth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BRIENNE'S POV

KING'S LANDING - A YARD INSIDE THE RED KEEP 

Every time ser Loras laughed, Renly followed him and leaned towards her, with his scent of velvets and flowers. At a certain moment, he had touched her, just a quick caress on her forearm, nothing of improper, but his blue eyes were glowing with mirth and tenderness, looking at her and then again to his closest friend, and Brienne had almost touched the sky. 

It had been even better than the two light kisses that Renly had placed on her flushed cheeks, on the deck of the ship which had brought her to King’s Landing… because, as he said, he had been so eager to see her that he hadn’t been able to wait on the docks. And now that he and the Knight of Flowers had been forced to greet her for some important duties, she was already missing him sorely, and couldn’t wait to meet her true and only love as soon as possible.

 _Renly, Renly, Renly, Renly._ Every stride she took on the cobblestones was singing his name, like a spell which made her almost forget the glances of the people passing. _Renly, Renly, Renly, Re… Ouch._

“Fuck! Look at where are you going, you dumb!”

Blushing wildly, her tongue impeded by shame and confusion, Brienne was struggling to get again on her clumsy feet, but it wasn’t that easy. The man which had crumbled with her on the ground was slender and well built, but he wasn’t surely helping. The maid shifted to her right and he did the same, and their legs ended more entangled than before. _It’s like a dance but none of us follows the music,_ was the absurd thought flashing in her mind, whilst the stranger’s strong smell of sweat and musk invaded her nostrils, banishing Renly’s sweet memory.

A little crowd of whispers and chocked words was staring at them, now, and anger lighted green flames in the man’s handsome face as he pulled away the golden curls that were blinding him. Then his eyes widened and his mouth curved in a smile that cut Brienne like a knife and let her breathless.

“For God’s sake, you’re the wench, Renly’s freakish wench.”

Laughs and burning comments spread around her. She gaped at the stranger helplessly, and hated every inch of his hideous perfection, and when he leaned his hand towards hers, Brienne, the freakish Maid of Tarth, wrenched herself free and punched him. Only then she noticed the crimson of his jerkin and the white of his cloak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)


	7. The damned Kingslayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JAIME'S POV

KING'S LANDING - A YARD INSIDE THE RED KEEP 

No doubt, she was the ugliest wench he had ever seen, taller than him, over six feet of muscles, freckles and horse teeth, and the clumsiest, judging from the way her huge body had danced on the cobblestones. Yet her eyes… For a heartbeat, Jaime forgot all the rest and a queer thought formed in his mind, as he leaned to help her and his hand reached the maid’s big, warm hand.

Then, all of sudden, the knight found himself again on the ground, his stomach and his arse aching. In the distance, someone had made out a shout, and scorn and fury had replaced hurt and confusion in those large blue eyes of hers.

“My name is Brienne”, she said, her voice trembling like the voice of a bride on the altar. “Don’t you dare to touch me, Kingslayer.”

The word lingered in the air and, for an endless moment, Jaime was too stunned even to think. Oh, they whispered it at his back, for sure, but nobody had ever been such bold to call him kingslayer in his face, since Robert had wed and bedded Cersei. _And now this fucking wench of, what, how old can she be? A squire, a green squire, no more than this…_

Jaime rose slowly to his feet, ignoring pain and bruises, then smiled a smile that the Smiling Knight would have envied if he hadn’t been dead and rot since so many years, like the man who had slain him, Ser Arthur Dayne, and his other sworn brothers… _And Aerys, it always goes back to Aerys. No one remembers that I was donning my golden armor that day, no one will remember there’s a lion of gold roaring on my chest right now._

To his pleasure, the wench didn’t hint to recoil when he stepped forward, she merely bit her swollen lip and brought her thick fingers to her hip, as if she was searching for the hilt of a sword… made of air, or ice, or fire, or hope, for all the damned Kingslayer could know or care.

She was pale and calm like a frozen lake, when Jaime started to unfasten his leather belt, needing no steel to break her - his blood was already singing at the thought of force her again to the ground, and make her yield and call out his name.

_Because my name is Jaime, wench._

_Jaime._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, hope you enjoy!


	8. Old cats still have claws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SER BARRISTAN'S POV

KING'S LANDING - THE RED KEEP

Amazement was his first reaction.

Long years had passed since a young lion, still too green and cocky, had been elevated to the highest honor that a knight can wish, yet the old man had never seen such a furious brightness in ser Jaime's eyes.

_He seems ready to jump at his opponent's throat and drown the poor fellow in his own blood._ _Like he did to his King,_ whispered a gloomy shadow in the Lord Commander's ear, and a shiver crawled up his spine with its yellow talons, almost a foot long.

“Ser Jaime. Ser Mandon and you are needed in the armory”, the command came out with the usual ease, but when he met the younger man's green gaze, an uncomfortable doubt did insinuate underneath his white plate armor, and with a quick glimpse, he read uncertainty in ser Preston's sudden stiffness, and cold determination in the hand that ser Mandon tightened around his lance until his fingers became paler than those of a corpse.

“My lord, sers”, grinned the lion, at last, then courteously bowed to the damned mass of muscles and stupidity that was so eager to find a premature death in this small yard. “My lady, it was an honor to meet you”, ser Jaime said, with an amused tone, before cutting his way through the crowd like a blade and vanishing with ser Mandon under the great arch which brought to the White Swords Tower, in a blur of white and crimson.

Ser Preston had already begin to disperse the curious, and the incredibly tall lady looked really young and ashamed, now that she was busy in counting the cobblestones, her cheeks red as apples contrasting queerly with the uncommon paleness of the hair she had tied in a simple knot. The colors on her doublet and breeches were easily recognized by ser Barristan, but it was when she raised shyly her chin, and glanced at him from underneath very long and thin eyelashes, that the kingsguard allowed himself to relax in a fond smile, his old bones filled with that particular warmth which is allowed few times in a lifetime, and which is so precious when the sun sets and a long, cold night begins.

“My lady, may I have the honor to escort you to your lord father's room? Hoping the Evenstar is effectively back in the capital”, he said, enjoying her renewed blush and the timid sparkle of joy in the blue deepness of her eyes.

“Do you know Father, ser? I-I mean, my Lord...”, she stammered, her confusion so blatant that it was hard not lean and grab her hand like if she were a child, and not a woman grown of sixteen or seventeen years old, only heir to the most beautiful island in all Westeros. _She also smells of sea and shores and meadows, in her own way,_ ser Barristan realized, when she finally recalled to present herself and take his arm meekly, like a proper, little girl. _Well, not so little, after all._

“Ser is enough, and the answer is yes, my lady”, he explained softly, when they entered in the relative calmness of one of the few gardens which gentled the Red Keep, “I know Lord Selwyn since he was a squire and he came to Harvest Hall with his elder brother Edwyn, which was meant to wed my sister.” To his pleasure, the girl turned again her stunning eyes to his lined face and her lips formed a big 'O'.

“The Gods above then decided otherwise about the wedding”, he added hastily, not wanting to recall the smell of smoke and the salty tears of that far, terrible tragedy, “but I met again your father, and it was a great honor to knight him.”

The Lord Commander had to sustain the shambling giantess as she winced and almost fell, stumbling on that terrible tomcat which believed to be the real king of the castle. The black, bold warrior gave her a undecipherable look, before turning with a ferocious hiss to ser Preston who was quietly reaching them, daring to climb and claw at the white cloak of the short Greenfield knight.

“Beware, Brienne”, the old man instinctively called the girl by name but, strangely, it didn't sound inappropriate. “It seems there are many things you're still have to learn, and inside these walls of blood red bricks, it's plenty of strays cats with long claws and dangerous, unreadable eyes, no matter if golden or green.”


	9. Stars and porcupines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CERSEI'S POV

KING’S LANDING - THE ROYAL APARTMENTS IN MAEGOR’S HOLDFAST

Judging from the wine stains on the myrish carpet and from the few fragments of glass that the servants had forgotten to pick up, it must have been truly a rough wooing, this time. A glimpse to Tyrek’s troubled face confirmed the queen’s suspicions and made her brow furrow in anger. _Even here, a few steps from my own solar…_

She sat on a tall ebony chair and waved a delicate hand to get her cousin’s attention. He rushed immediately to her side, his long hair shining of the glorious gold of Lannisters.

“Your Grace”, he bowed deferentially, and almost gracefully. Probably he could be considered graceful, for a lad, and he was destined to become acceptably handsome one day, like Lancel, who was old enough to put on display a shy wisp over his lip, and bold enough to call it a moustache. _They both have their own sense, more or less. If not compared to Jaime, of course._

“Tyrek, tell me, how old is she?”

Robert’s squire squirmed uncomfortable as if someone had seized his tongue with white-hot pincers. “I-I don’t know, my lady. I haven’t seen her, but Lancel says she must be seventeen or eighteen, at least, even if she’s so tall and _uncommon_ that it’s hard to…” _Uncommonly beautiful, you should say. Men are such fools, even the pretended men-to-be. Lancel should learn that women have a face and not only a couple of lovely teats to stare at._ In the last weeks, she had surprised her cousin glancing at her in a way that might mean a bag of broken bones for the youth, if Jaime would have known. _But my white-cloaked-twin is a fool, and useless, like all the others, not even able to get rid of annoyances or to understand which is his place._

Cersei Lannister, pride and gem of Casterly Rock, pointed her elegant index finger to a piece of glass sparkling on the marble floor and gave out an asking sigh.

Tyrek’s eyes went panicking around the room, and his voice changed into a laughable squeaking. “Your Grace, I beg your pardon if we failed to tidy the room properly, also the servants were distracted by the punch…”

“A punch?” _Is it possible that Robert has been hit by his uncommonly beautiful whore?_ The queen was half horrified, half delighted at the unexpected turn of events. 

“… in that small yard, just below the bow-window, near the lilac garden.”

“In the yard? What happened here, then?”, roared gently Cersei.

“It happened before the punch, Your Grace. We were forbitten to stay in, whilst the king met the lady’s father, the evenstar...”

A highborn woman. An angry father. Robert’s usual whoring was changing in a tremendous affair, worse than the mess in Darry’s woods, and that idiotic lad with eyes too close-set and frightened to be a true lion was babbling about constellations. His mother, ser Addam Marbrant’s vapid cousin, should have thanked the Gods that the queen was wise and well provided with patience.

“… the king shouted so loud, that ser Arys and ser Boros broke in, but the king almost hit the porcupines’ knight with a jug of dornish red…” 

Porcupines at court. White cloaks waiting before a door, instead of being with the king. Punches sold for a penny like hot pies in the Red Keep, and who punched who was still a mystery. Cersei’s nostrils flared and the lad paled, losing the ability of speaking. She glared at him, like if he were a midge, an annoying midge, but she had to be calm, she needed more information, beginning from the most important one.

“What’s her name, Tyrek?”

“Brienne”, his voice was hardly more than a murmur. “They call her Brienne the Beauty.”


	10. To be (or not to be) a kingsguard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SER ARYS' POV

KING'S LANDING - THE RED KEEP

According to the songs, John the Oak had been sired by Garth Greenland on a giantess, and now his humble descendant found himself wondering if she had had hundreds of freckles and lips full and red like fireplums.

Before taking his leave, the Lord Commander gave her a curious glance, filled with gentleness and an odd familiarity, and the tall lady's freckles disappeared under a wild and motiveless blush, which ought to make her even uglier, if possible, if not for the quick, immaterial, fluttering of her almost white eyelashes, and for a twinkle of unexpected blue.

Under his thick black whiskers, ser Preston’s face twisted in a grimace - maybe he was simply feeling himself a dwarf among ser Barristan and the homely girl, or maybe he was trying to suggest something to his sworn brother... _Whatever has happened here is nothing, compared to what has just happened in the king's solar,_ ser Arys decided, giving a last glimpse to the garden, perfumed of lilacs, lavender and jasmine, where he believed to catch the shine of a little golden head. _No wonder, the princess is so fond of flowers, she certainly didn't take her loveliness from her mother, nor from her father. Gods, he can be terrible in his wroth._

“So, ser Arys, what has angered that much the king?”, the Lord Commander asked in a low voice, as if he could read through the younger knight with his sad, wise eyes. Notwithstanding the treacherous stairs of Maegor’s Holdfast and his white hair, ser Barristan showed no signs of tiredness, nor his breaths were short and panting like ser Boros’ ones when the short-legged man trained with all the others. _This is the person I wanted to become, when I longed for the white cloak, the person I still need to become,_ he repeated to himself, and, mayhap not so strangely, his thoughts ran to the Lord who had caused so much trouble. Imponent, blue-eyed and white-haired with only a few strands of bright black hair, the Evenstar, still handsome and strong, could easily remind the most admired knight of all Westeros. 

“His Grace met the Lord of Evenfall Hall, and, at the very beginning, king Robert hugged him as if they were kin…”

“They are, actually. Lord Selwyn was raised at court with the late Lord Steffon.”

“Oh. I never seen him before here, at court”, the stupid comment came out ser Arys’ lips before he could restrain himself.

“He wasn’t welcome”, ser Barristan stopped and verified that nobody was listening to them, not even ser Preston, who had been outdistanced in their haste to reach the royal rooms, “You’re too young to remember, ser, but Tarth didn’t take any part of the war.” No need to specify which war. A veil shadowed the old knight’s pale eyes, and ser Arys couldn’t help but think to the kingslayer and his cutting smiles. “Don’t judge Lord Selwyn a coward, or a traitor, he had his… reasons, as many others had.” _Tyrells and their bannermen included, one might think, if it wouldn’t stink of treason even after so many years_. “Yet, _his_ were strong reasons, Gods forbid to raise your hand against your kin.”

If not for the white-enameled helm the youth wore, his jaw would have fallen to the ground, like an overriped melon. “I-I understood that the Evenstar is king Robert’s kin…”

“In the Stormlands, old men say that House Tarth and House Durrandon were two faces of the same coin, given the many marriages among them. The Baratheons just followed the Storm Kings’ habit, even if less often. But it’s not only the Laughing Storm’s blood that flows fiercely in the King and the Evenstar both.”

Ser Preston reached them, and the Lord Commander added not a single word more. The young knight form Old Oak was so stunned and puzzled that he realized to be in the King’s own bedroom and in the massive presence of His Grace, only when his royal shouts woke him from any damned fancies of fire and dragons.

“What the hell are you still doing here?” The King was staring at him with eyes red and moist, and he wasn’t the only one. All the glances in the room were on ser Arys, and cold sweat began slipping on the back of his neck.

“The girl!”, king Robert bellowed, spitting drops of dark wine. “You, useless idiot. I told you to summon ser Barristan and, then, to bring me the Evenstar’s daughter before she can leave with her stubborn, arrogant, oaf of a father.”

“Your Grace”, the Lord Commander’s voice was like a balm for the younger knight, “my duty compels me to remind you that the Stormlanders are no different from the Northmen when it comes to maidens forced to leave their father’s shield.”

The silence lasted no more than a few instants, yet it was like the room had been swallowed by the earth, leaving nothing but walking shadows, bloodless and voiceless, except for ser Barristan, who stood noble and tall.

Then king Robert spoke again, harsh and hoarse, “She's not betrothed, not yet, she can't without my consent and I need Ned. Where is he? Why nobody has summoned Lord Stark when the King is in fucking need of his Hand?”

As the Lord Commander gave a nod, ser Boros hurried towards the thick wooden door, apparently very relieved to leave the chamber. Or so he seemed to Ser Arys, because _he_ would have been very, but very glad to leave it, given that the King was far to be done with the young kingsguard.

“And you, ser Dumb, bring me the girl.”

“The tall lady who punched ser Jaime’s in his stomach”, whispered ser Preston, coming in his sworn brother’s help, with the only result to drown him in a complete and utter confusion.

Even if it had been just a slight over a murmur, king Robert must have heard it, because he started to laugh, and laughed harder and harder, needing to grasp to the maple wood table with both hands and, then, to take more sips of wine, before being able to breathe again. The smile on the royal bearded face made also ser Arys breathe again, and the tension in the bedroom dropped a bit more, when he addressed to the Lord Commander with a jovial tone. “No doubt I must know the lady who kicked ser Jaime’s precious arse, and, don’t worry, my loyal ser Barristan, she’ll be treated very well at court. for all the time she’ll remain here like my honored guest, and _ward_. I don’t know why, but I already like her a lot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Arys... Among Robert's seven, the only one - except obviously for ser Barristan - who really desired to wear a white cloak.


	11. Wax on, wax off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JAIME'S POV

Slow, imperturbable, the spoon brought some broth to her delicate lips, then to the doll’s mouth, painted in a brilliant pink. Nor Cersei’s harsh rebukes, nor Joffrey’s sneers seemed to disturb the pretty child’s dinner, and a part of her quietness reverberated nicely on her little brother, who was clearly more affected by the storm raging in the lavish room.

To the queen’s displeasure, Jaime - the pretended great swordsman, the wobbly legged puppet, the execrable fool who had ridiculed any Lannister since Lann the Clever did steal the Rock and the Casterlys’ maidens along with the gold of the sun - in brief, Jaime and all the other shitty creatures living inside him, they were too hungry to care about their golden twin’s recriminations, and her wretched son can go bugger himself, if the black olive the lad had instead of a brain was too tiny and withered to recall how some stupid lion of thirteen had been beaten by a skinny she-wolf of scarcely nine.

_At least, the wench which kicked my arse was tall like the Hound, inch more, inch less. And she cheated, I must tell Tyrion._

The first sip of the gold wine spread a pleasant sensation of summer and indolence in Jaime’s body. His muscles were sore and battered, after having spent the last damned hours in ser Mandon’s funereal company, verifying the conditions of every single piece of steel or leather in the armory. He took another sip to forget that their fundamental task was far to be over, and that he was waited early in the morrow by swords, daggers, maces and whatever. _Still better than standing in front of a door in a whorehouse, like ser Boros and ser Arys are surely doing right now. Gods, this vintage is excellent, Tyrion would like it. Cersei is appreciating it a lot, maybe they could become good brother and sister, after all._

The thought was so absurd that he couldn’t help but chuckle, attiring a resented glance by the queen, but also the attention of a couple of sparkling emeralds. 

_Pretty eyes, and calm. Prettier than Cersei’s._ Unbidden, his mind came back to the wench, wondering again if her master-at-arms had taught her the importance of remaining composed and collected even in the fury of a battle, or if it had been only a good instinct. _The only certain thing is that she has spent a lot of time and sweat in a training yard and this is a curious thing for a wench, even for a very tall one._

“Not your fault, nuncle, if she’s taller than you”, the words that Tommen whispered in his ear surprised Jaime, “Myrci saw her walking in the garden with ser Barristan”, the plump child explained, with a shy smile on his lips. 

“No matter how she’s tall, the fact is that she caught me off-guard. Never allow anybody to catch you off-guard.”

The child narrowed his eyes in puzzlement, then waited till his mother was busy in scolding her poor bedmaid, before leaning again to murmur something to the knight, something that sounded more or less like a question.

“Do you want to know how she got to distract me?”, Jaime murmured back, and Tommen nodded, his cheeks red for the expectation or, maybe, for the happiness of seeing a dozen cream cakes, arriving on a big silver plate.

“It was a vile trick. Big, blue eyes, brighter than the sea in summertime, when it’s so calm and still that your mother allow you to have a bath. Do you remember, Tommen, the last time we went to the Rock?”, the child shot a furtive glance to the queen and the princeling, before nodding again, this time with enthusiasm. “With such eyes, even uncle Tyrion might have a hope against the Mountain.”

Tommen looked at him bewildered, sowing crumbs on his crimson doublet, embroidered with the Baratheon black stag, whilst Myrcella made out a little, crystalline laugh. _Lovely, clever and with very good ears, that one._ The kingsguard leaned towards the stunned child, just in time to avoid the golden cup thrown by his beloved twin. “Remember, Tommen, beware of imps and wenches with large eyes.”

“Oh”, said the sweet lad, still chewing both cakes and words, “She’s beautiful, then. Do you think that I’ll be able to see her?”

“Impossible not to see her, Tommen”, he laughed, but the innocent child looked suddenly torn between hope and disappointment. 

“Because Myrci said that the lady’s father and Father have bickered, but _really, really, really_ bickered, so she’s going to leave at dawn, to come back home. Where is her home, uncle?”

“Somewhere in the Stormlands, Tommen, but, in truth, I don’t know.” _And there will be no time to know the wench a bit better, thanking the Gods above._ The taste of the Arbor wine turned sour in Jaime’s mouth, and his stomach twitched, still angry for the punch or vexed by the golden poison. _Drinking is not for me, I should let it toTyrion and Cersei, and enjoy polishing blades and waxing leather stuff for the rest of my sulking life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Tommen, but the best lion cub is Myrcella :)


	12. When the Hand met the Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NED'S POV

KING'S LANDING - THE KING'S SOLAR

“I must see the King.”

“He’s not here. High duties…”, thanking the Gods, the door was thick enough to muffle the irritating voice of the big-bellied knight. The Lord of Winterfell didn’t care too much to recall the bald man’s name, and wondered how such a wretched thing could have admitted in the kingsguard, when so many good youths would gladly leave everything behind them, to wear a white cloak.

 _Like Bran,_ he thought, and the shadow set by the incumbent night on the marble floor resembled queerly to a crow. A big, black crow, which knew all the truth. _Like Bran, before the fall._ A shiver furtively caressed Ned’s shoulder blades, notwithstanding the fact it was too warm even for his borrowed clothes. His men hadn’t still had the time to unpack all the stuff, the preference having been given to the girls’ necessities. _Sansa was really lovely in her new dress, and I forgot to tell her. Her mother wouldn’t ever forget such things, but Lord Petyr had been urging to meet me, and me alone, since the small council of yesterday had ended. Then Robert quarreled with a far, far cousin which is only one of the most influent Lords of the unruliest lands of Westeros, and here I am, picking up the pieces of the shortest betrothal of all times, whilst all I’d want is a bath, a bed, and Catelyn already asleep in that bed._

“King’s Landing is not a good place to rest, my lord”, said ser Barristan.

“No. it isn’t. Should I summon Lord Renly? Maybe he would like to be present…”

“… when ser Arys will come back with the lady?”

 _When we’ll break a young girl’s dream,_ the tired northman considered, but kept silent.

“My lord, the King never mentioned his brother, so I guess we can leave him enjoy peacefully his dinner and talk to the lady, without alarming her too much. His Grace isn’t known for his patience, yet he cares about Lord Renly more than he’d ever admit, since their parents died, so suddenly.”

 _The tragedy of the Windproud._ Dark wings had brought the news to the Eyrie, and Jon Arryn hadn’t been ashamed to be seen weeping, thinking to his elder son, far and alone in his grief. _Jon Arryn, our second father, the only left after water and fire stole our own kin. And now he’s dead and Robert’s main duty is visiting brothels._ The Lord of Winterfell shook slowly his head. “This sounds wise, ser Barristan, yet a part of me thinks that it’s better for the girl to leave with her father, and found another match. She’s still the heir of an entire island.”

“The greatest island of Westeros, Lord Eddard, and the Stormlands’ natural shield. I presume the Lord of Storm’s End hasn’t chosen casually his bride-to-be, and I have no doubts about Lord Tarth’s sense of honor, or about his commitment to the King’s father.”

“And what about his commitment to the King, instead?”, his grey eyes locked on the pale blue eyes of the older knight. _The color is brighter, yet the calmness in them is the same I could see in Jon Arryn’s eyes._

“Weddings are often a good way to heal old wounds. The lady will become the King’s own sister.”

 _And the Queen’s one, whilst my sweet Sansa will become her daughter._ The thought made him shift uncomfortably on the tall chair, as if that Lannister woman had been seated on the same velvet cushion just a moment before, leaving her scent linger in the air.

Luckily, the lady outside Robert’s solar - if the king’s bosomed friends could be called ladies - raised her sharping voice till a point that it was impossible to ignore her. Now she was claiming to see the Hand of the King. It took an interrogative glance by ser Barristan to make Ned remember that he was the damned Hand of the King, now. 

Sighing loudly, the damned Hand rose on his feet to face this unyielding lady and when he opened the door a fresh, northern wind came in, indifferent to the useless efforts of the bald kingsguard. _Boros, they call him ser Boros,_ he recalled, barely masking his contempt. _There’s no chance this one will kill his King. Not with steel, at least._

“So, this is the Hand of the King, now? Who else sits in the Small Council? An inverted, a procurer or even a eunuch?”, the lady scowled at him, but Ned couldn’t help but smile, for the first time in all the day, seeing how much the indignant woman resembled to Maege Mormont’s older daughter, a tall, willowy creature, with fair eyes. _Not that I’d ever see the heir of Bear Island with such frown or such clothes._ A few lines marked the uninvited guest as a woman in her last thirties, but her candid robe marked her as a Septa.

“Where’s the King? I need him right now”, the holy sister insisted, turning towards Ser Barristan.

“My lady…”, Ned began, but she twisted on herself, cutting his words with the sharpest of all gazes.

“I’m no lady, no more, since I chose to serve the Faith with the name of Septa Roelle. Nothing that an unholy man who talks with trees might ever understand. So, where’s the King, now that he’s needed the most?”

“Septa or not, you should go back…”, tried to say the fat knight.

“And you should clean your mouth with the cloak you’re unworthily wearing, before interrupting a holy sister while she’s speaking. Once, even the kings used to kneel before the Faith, they did their duty and they didn’t disappear, leaving the Realm in the hand of someone who smells of northern gods. From very far.” The Septa’s nose wrinkled prettily, and Ned felt even more the need of a bath. _And of a bed. The Master of Coins will wait another century, for all I care._

“Septa Roelle, what’s the King’s duty, right now?”, asked carefully ser Barristan.

“To serve and protect, what else?”

“To serve and protect whom, exactly?”

“The innocent ones. And my beloved is such an innocent.” It seemed to Ned that her voice was a bit trembling, now, and he caught a concerned glance from the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

“Her beloved fled with a red-haired scum, that’s all”, the bald man broke in, playing with the lion brooch that fastened his snowy cloak. The Septa moved so quickly that her hand landed loudly on his plump cheek, leaving a five-fingered sign, before he could try to step aside.

“May the Father judge you justly and may the Crone sent me enough wisdom not to raise again my hand on empty sacks of suet. Not too often, at least”, she prayed, then lifted her eyes to Ned’s face, furrowing her brow as if she were uncertain what to say in the presence of such a poor surrogate of a king. “There’s no lady noblest than my beloved. She’s young, and impulsive, sometimes. Stubborn, unruly, with the tendency of forgetting to comb her hair and of putting herself in troubles. I told her to pack her things, eat and go to sleep, like her lord father had decided, then another white cloak with more hair than this … this… may the Mother forgive my evil yet justified thoughts. Well, the other knight with light-brown hair and a nice face distracted me with his absurd request of bringing my poor Brienne away whilst her lord father was elsewhere, so she had enough time to climb out the window.”

The Hand didn’t know what to say or think, and the Septa’s nostrils opened and closed with enough disdain to annihilate the most execrable of men.

“All I can add is that when that _ser_ Arys dared to enter into her chamber - a maiden’s chamber! May the Gods forgive us all - the room was empty and from the window I glimpsed the lady Brienne running away with a young man, with a flaming mop of hair and the smug face of a sinner.”

“And ser Arys?”, asked ser Barristan.

“He ran, trying to follow them, but all that he gained was a kick from a skinny brat, dressed in northern rags. Oh, look at you, _my lord Hand_. I wasted too much time to find the royal rooms, then talking to that fat idiot who feigns to be a knight, and, even now, we’re talking, talking and my lady is lost somewhere in this dreadful city and the only thing that thrills you is a stupid, insignificant kick.”


	13. Freckled, stormy people holding hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BRIENNE'S POV

KING'S LANDING - SOMEWHERE OUT THE RED KEEP

“It's raining wenches, for Gods' sake. Never happened, not to me, not even in the Stormlands and there it rains a lot”, the young man said, smoothing his cotton breeches, with a pleasant smile on his freckled face.

“I’m from Stormlands, too”, she replied, frowning and blinking her eyes. _'Wench' is odious, but surely better than 'freakish wench'_. The stranger’s smile widened and Brienne decided to trust his dimples and even his hair that was of a bright, brazen red. Not that she had many other options, now that Septa Roelle's was shouting her name till the sky and beyond. “Well, I- I just met you and this is crazy, but could you help me?”

He looked up at the arched window from which she had escaped, before answering. “If that lovely mastiff up there is your guardian, there’s only a thing you can do, sweetling”. He took her hand, helping her to raise from the ground. “Run.”

So she did. They ran, and ran, until they were both red and panting, ridiculously light and carefree among the puddles of moonlight. It felt refreshing like a summer rain or like rolling on the meadows when the grass is tall and soft. The youth chose a dark corner between a closed draper’s shop and what seemed to have been a sort of inn, fallen in disuse from many years, and dragged her with him, chuckling like a cockerel. She was glad that the shadow would hide the red splotches on her face and her crooked teeth, in full display now that she was smiling, yet the pressure of his hand on her palm was a bit awkward, like his closeness. The maid wondered what Septa Roelle would have said, before recalling she had only punched a kingsguard who casually was the Queen's brother, but, most of all, Lord Tywin Lannister's firstborn son, argued with her father about the breaking of her betrothal and, finally, climbed down a wall of red bricks like a huge, grey spider. _This time, Father will wed me to a wilding beyond the Wall,_ she thought and the sweat cooled on her goose-prickled skin.

“Hey, we just met and this is crazy”, the red-haired youth mocked her, “but what about if you tell me your name? I’m Anguy, and I’m here to take part to the Hand’s Tourney.”

“The Hand’s tourney?”, Brienne gave him a skeptical look. He was the same age as Renly, but he was several inches shorter than him, and even if he wasn’t badly built for a slender man, he was definitely no warrior.

“Don’t you know? The heralds spread the news only today, but Lord Caron was sure King Robert would have organized something big. Think, ten thousand dragons for the archery contest. A fortnight, and I’ll be rich, sweetling”, he boasted, and his freckles danced a smug dance.

“Don’t call me sweetling, nor wench” “I’m Brienne.”

“And what are doing in the capital, Brienne-too-tall?”

“Nothing of your concern, Anguy-too-short”, she wrenched herself free and hurried towards… towards… _Where am I supposed to go now? Where am I?_ A big rat glared at her with glowing red pinheads, then fled away as soon as the pretended archer reached her.

“Come on, Brienne. No meant to fuck it up”, his smile was a bit less sly, now. “You asked me to help you, but it could be difficult if you go wherever your big boots take you.”

Brienne looked down to the dusty boots she was wearing under the old, graying night gown, barely covered by the thin cloak she had picked up hastily from the wardrobe. She blushed, sighed, and confessed. “I came here to wed my betrothed, but I did a …very stupid thing, so Father changed his mind, and left me packing”, she squeezed Anguy’s hand, warm and calloused like hers, “please, I need to find him and beg him not to leave, I don’t want to leave. Please.”

“How can I refuse such a romantic beauty?”, he laughed and the dimples came back triumphantly. “Where do you think we can find your father?”

“When he’s angry, and, well, Father was terribly angry tonight, well, he may be in one of those houses where ladies comfort widowed men and…”

“Ladies? They're no ladies, I fear, only very generous wenches, but basically they’re called whores”, a fire climbed up her neck till her cheeks and Anguy narrowed his brown eyes. “You speak weirdly and your boots are fine leather under the scratches and the dust. Where are you exactly from, m’lady?”

“I’m no lady”, Brienne cut stiffly.

“Lady, Laaaady!” That wasn’t an echo. It was a child’s scream and sounded desperate. She shared a quick glance with Anguy and they ran, ran again, furiously, down the hill, through the narrow streets of cobbles, under the vigilant eyes of the moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading


	14. Ladies, shadowcats and direwolves.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ARYA' POV

KING'S LANDING - THE GUTTER IN THE NEARBY OF RIVER ROW

Sneaking out the Tower of the Hand had been easy.

Her father was elsewhere, as usual, and the men were all in the Small Hall, raising toasts to some good fellow who had punched the Kingslayer and laughing too hard to notice her pass, quick as a mouse. For an instant, Arya thought herself lost, when Desmond jerked on his feet, but he had simply guffawed too hard at Harwin’s mimicking a big bear with a crest of straw on his head, such hard that a rivulet of dark beer had flowed from his nostrils and soaked his beard. 

_Too easy, it has been too easy. No wonder that even Sansa has managed to get outside, but why, why she had to be there?_

Instinctively, Arya was sure that her sister hadn’t followed her, because of the utter surprise widening Sansa's blue eyes when they had met in the yard. Then, the dress. Her sister's hair shone as if it had been brushed and combed for a century, and she was wearing the same stupid, hideous dress that dumb Jeyne Poole thought so delightful and …what else?

 _Queen-like._ Arya spitted. _I hate queens, I hate the Queen._ _No, Sansa wasn’t looking for me, she was looking for someone else, whilst I was looking for the tall girl wearing breeches. What rotten luck._

Before her, the alley ended in a sort of tiny square, only that it wasn’t really a square, only a dark hole where buildings too poorly built had collapsed since a long time. This part of the city was a mystery to Arya, and it was a miserable place in the nearby of a river, but at least she might be sure that nobody had followed her till this gutter, nor her sister, nor that kingsguard and its candid tunic, decorated with an oak tree, which glowed like Lannister gold in the scarce light. 

She recoiled on her steps and snorted. Deep down, Arya hadn’t really wanted to hit the white cloak, and the same with her sister, she just wanted to ignore her and have her way, but no, not with Sansa, Sansa-the-perfect-damsel behaved always as if she were better than anyone and now, if her dress had been ruined, she had to blame only herself, because she had no right to touch Needle, and she was a liar, a filthy liar - but, here, in the south, people always preferred liars, if combed and well-spoken.

_Luckily, I’m almost done with southrons. A horse, black clothes, that’s all I need._

_Old Nan says that people are honored to offer mead and meat to those who mean to join the Night’s Watch, and, once at the Wall, Jon will muss up my hair and take me, the way I am._

_I may pass by Darry’s woods, I will. Oh, no, the daft’s here._

Arya stuck to a wall that smelled of piss and whose bricks were still warm for the sunny day, and waited for the brown-haired kingsguard to ride ahead of her, wondering if the ‘lady Brienne’ he was calling out loudly could be the tall girl that also she had been looking for.

It was all enough confused in Arya’s mind. She sat on a huge, abandoned wheel, to pause and reflect. She recalled that she was still running away from her sister, when she had noticed the tall girl, who strangely wasn’t wearing breeches no more, only a cotton robe, but still, Sansa had been wrong, the giantess wasn’t a lady, she couldn’t be.

_Not at all. Ladies don’t climb down a wall, with the agility and the rapidity of a shadowcat._

If it weren’t for that royal wetnurse in white and gold, who had mistaken her for a stable boy, Arya would have caught with the mysterious girl and, maybe, she would have accepted to teach the little wolf something more than ‘ _stick ‘em with the pointy end’_ , something that she could use against the Hound, Joffrey, Queen Cersei.

The smile that had curved her lips dropped, as she realized that the girl had vanished, like mist in the sun, and that the probabilities of seeing her again were the same probabilities that Sansa would become less giggling and idiot, one day. Chewing her lip, Arya began descending downhill, stepping from shadow to shadow, and glaring at the moon, which was so absurdly white and bright tonight, like fresh snow on the barrows, like Ghost’s fur, like two never-ending legs, that were running on the dark cobbles, pale and naked, if not for a couple of old boots and a grey gown lifted till mid-thigh. 

_Ladies don’t run in the moonlight, with the speed and the sureness of a direwolf._

Arya fought the urge of pulling back the head and howl, and ran, ran as if she were in the wild, and not in that dreadful, stinking city of bricks and lies.


	15. The lightning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SER ARYS' POV

KING'S LANDING - IN THE DANGEROUS WEB OF NARROW ALLEYS AND LANES SOUTH OF THE MUD GATE

On the threshold of a red house where no ladies could ever be found, a woman winkled at him, and made slip the thin cotton covering her shoulders, revealing a freckled breast which hadn’t already begin to sag.

It was more than a man sworn to celibacy should see, and more than ser Arys could stand, in this terribly long and warm night. Sweat stuck wisps of hair on his forehead, and the shirt was clutching to his skin under the mail, yet this was no place to get rid of the helm, nor the armor.

When he had joined the kingsguard, there were no troubles in this part of the city, yet, lately, wharf rats from the Harbor and even from Flea Bottom had made their gloomy appearance in the alleys descending from River Row, and brothels, winesinks and inns of ill repute had mushroomed, here, inside the walls, like in the ramshackle buildings behind the quays, just outside the Mud Gate.

 _Not even the gold cloaks come so often in this gutter, and they have steel while she has nothing but a blue cape of thin wool_ , the knight realized, feeling all the burden of his vows. At first, he had been angry with the Evenstar’s daughter, and even angrier with that stinking groom who had dared to give him a kick, but now, after having consumed his voice in shouting the lady’s name, the only thing that ser Arys really desired was to see her homely face as soon as he would turn at the next corner. _To catch a smile forming on her lips as I bring her back to safety… even if that means facing again the King, and maybe Lord Tarth and that terrifying Septa. Gods, I pray you, send me the Evenstar and even the worst scum of Flea Bottom, but let me find her and spare me that Septa._

“Brienne! Lady Brienne, I pray you, if you hear me…”, the knight caught in his breath, as soon as he had turned the corner of the small lane to climb back to Fishmonger’s Square.

“What do you want from my daughter, ser?”, the Lord asked, pale and deadly cold, like the steel of his unsheathed greatsword. He had no freckles, but he was tall, even taller than ser Arys recalled, so tall and powerful that the splendid grey destrier he was riding seemed almost a dornish sand steed.

“The King requires her presence, my lord.”

“She’s certainly not here, but in the quarters where her father has been welcomed as a guest, and no maiden should leave her father’s roof when it’s dark, tell that to king Robert, and tell him that Lord Selwyn is at his disposition, but the lady Brienne is sailing for Tarth on the morrow, like I’ve just arranged.”

 _Tarth. Tarth. Tarth._ Ser Arys’ head was pounding. Once the maester in Old Oak had taught a green boy that only Gods knew what happened in Skagos or in the Shivering Sea, that in Bear Island women matched with bears, that the Iron Islands were so harsh that were filled with plunderers and rapers and the Arbor was such rich that its people were libertine and corrupted till bones, it was known. No need to remember, then, how bloody were the Stepstones, or how damp and poor were Estermont, the Three Sisters and the other tiny islands at east, whilst Dragonstone, Driftmark and Claw Isle must be feared because too proudly Valyrian. But Tarth, according to the old master, Tarth was the Sapphire Island, with endless shores of rose sands and tiny rock crystals, and blue mountains, waterfalls, springs, soft hills, fertile fields and meadows… a beautiful, peaceful place, not a place where ladies were supposedly eager to gift punches or flee with red-haired lowborns.

“So, why are you here?”, the Lord pressed him, ice blue eyes widening in the darkness, “Where’s her? Where’s Brienne?”

“I don’t know. Not in her room”, his throat was parched when the knight had to admit his failure not only to the lady's father, but also to himself. The guards at the Red Keep south gate had seen the lady took River Row and then a very tall girl had been seen running though the market square by the wife of a fishmonger, but that was all. “I beg you, my lord, sheathe your blade and believe me when I say that…”

“Shut up.”

“My lord, remember the color of my cloak.”

“SHUT UP. Please. Listen, it’s her, it’s Brienne.”

And suddenly a lightning stabbed the cloudless sky, and ser Arys heard her, she was not so far and she was not lost, not yet, then the thunder covered the screams and the galloping of their mounts and when its roar ended, it left only silence, a silence that chilled his soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry - angst is coming.


	16. Heavy and sharp enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SANSA'S POV

SOMEWHERE, BETWEEN DREAM AND REALITY

_This is only a dream, and, in my dreams, Bran is always smiling and Lady is always asking for a cuddle with her big, innocent eyes._

Shuddering, she looked down to the tattered silk of her poor dress, not wanting to see the hole that the hairy man had instead of a nose, and covered her ears with chilled hands, not wanting to ear the hisses coming from the other beast or the sneers of their grumkins. She had glimpsed a long, slimy tongue among rows of white needles, but it couldn't be true, nobody could have teeth sharp as knifes or such a milky flesh, which seemed to be melting like the summer snow, back in Winterfell. _Winterfell, I'm still home. Lady will hear me screaming and she'll wake me up, licking my face, and Gage will bake for me more lemon cakes than I can eat._

Lady heard her. The monsters abruptly stopped and turned to face her, only that it wasn't really Lady, only a creature pure and grey like her, and even the eyes were right. _Wrong color, but same light. Starlight,_ Sansa thought, and felt her body slipping slowly on the half-crumbled wall she was leaned to. Before closing, her eyes caught the tremulous shine of a head kissed by the fire and by the sun, as a handsome youth, another valiant knight, had joined the fight.

A song of valor and blood had begun, she could even smell the blood, but at the beginning every romantic song is full of angst and darkness, isn’t it?

Sansa had only to wait, her hands politely in her lap, until it’d be all finished. She tried to recall the sweet, golden features of her prince but someone moaned beside her and Joffrey’s face twisted in anger and loath, spoiling it all.

It was Arya’s fault, only hers. She had told the guards at the gate to warn the Hand that his evil daughter had escaped and followed her little sister out of the Red Keep, and now Sansa was so repented, she should have gone directly to her father as she wanted to do since the beginning, but she was mad with anger with Arya, for she had torn the new silk dress, and used such filthy words… _I’m no liar, no, I’m not, and it’s not my fault if Lady is dead, Lady isn’t truly dead, it was only an evil dream and this is only an evil dream, which will fade as soon as I’ll open my eyes._

When she finally opened her eyes, Sansa found herself staring at Arya. The little wretched thing was shouting at her and shacking her shoulders and pinching her arms.

“I hate you”, she whispered her, and, for a while, Arya became so still that Sansa absurdly believed to be in the crypt of Winterfell, in front of the statue of a girl who had been beautiful and fond of flowers. Then the statue slapped her with a force unnatural in a child of nine, forcing her face to turn to her right, where the body of a young man was bend in a strange position, a white bone piercing the skin of his arm. There was blood on his rough clothes, but not on his hair, that was still gleaming red-gold in the moonlight. 

She darted her glance around the ruins and the waste, and saw blood also on an ugly grey night gown, wore by a girl who was even uglier and tall, very tall - and strong, very strong, but not _enough_ strong. 

“The pack survives, the pack”, were the words that echoed in Sansa’s mind, it was her sister’s voice to repeat and repeat them, but, in a way, she had always known them, they flowed hot and strong in her veins like the warm water had been flowing inside the walls of the Stark seat for a thousand years so she nodded, and rose to her feet.

“Well done, Sansa, now come with me, down the hill, as Anguy has said, not far from here there’s a red house”, the Stark girl kept all her concentration in putting a step after another step, and in listening only to Arya’s voice and not to other frightening sounds. _Bran is dying slowly in his bed, Lady has already dead, my tears have all dried and she's not not a lady and he wasn't a knight, so why am I crying?_

A thunder and then the silence wrapped the night as a shroud, and she shivered, and even Arya shivered and paled, squeezing her hand till it ached. Tears were almost blinding her, but she knew they were still far from the red house, from any shelter.

“Run, Arya, run like the wind”, she heard herself saying and a hand wiped away the tears. It was a delicate, smooth hand, delicate as her mother’s hand, and resolute as her father’s hand when he held the monstrous weight of Ice. Yet it was _her_ hand.

“No!”

“You, foolish child. Can’t you see? I’m slow, and this stupid dress is not helping. Run, you run quicker than Robb, go away”, she wrenched herself free and picked up two rocks or cobbles of whatever. They were heavy and sharp enough. “Go, sister, or I’ll throw these rocks to your horse face.”

 _Horseface._ Arya hated to be reminded she wasn't a beauty. Yet in this starry light her little sister could be everything, a beauty or a beast, and the absurd was than even Sansa's reflection in her sparkling silver eyes could be everything. Everything Lord Stark's first daughter wanted to be. A queen or a direwolf.

_Or both._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, Anguy.


	17. Hanging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BRIENNE'S POV

TARTH - EVENFALL HALL... MAYBE, OR MAYBE NOT

Her feet were dancing in the mild air, surprisingly light and almost graceful, as if she were still in Renly’s arms, spinning and swirling in silk and brocade, and the sunset had veiled of rose the candid marbles of Evenfall Hall.

 _Renly._ Her only love’s eyes were more green than blue in Brienne’s memory, and bright and cutting as a cat’s eyes, but it wasn’t that weird now that the storm was behind her eyes, making her float in a blinding mist. Her chest was burning in the struggle to find air and her neck was aching and bleeding, where the milky beast’s claws had dug into her flesh.

A dog barked, loud and frantic, somewhere in the distance, then came the thunder and Brienne understood it was the end, she was no more than a broken puppet hanged to a tree and there easily forgotten; if she’d had tears, she would have wept for Anguy and for her father, but the children had escaped, so it didn’t really matter.

 _It will feast upon my freakish body with its pointed teeth_ , she realized just before spreading her wings, but then she was flying beyond pain, little stars of gold twinkling and falling all around her, till the sky became a wide sea of ink and of unwritten words. 

***

Fire woke her. Flames lingered on her lips, then flooded down her throat, burning their way to her chest. She made out a wheeze, coughed and spit, as if she had forgotten how to breathe, because it burned and ached terribly, but it was air to fill her lungs again, not fire.

Her head was pounding, leaned to something cold and cold hands were running on her sore body. _Golden hands_ , she noticed, as she managed to open her eyes, and scowled to the perfect whiteness of his grin.

“Welcome back, wench”, _he_ laughed, and his laughs smelled of sweet wine and reverberated in tiny pain stings inside the maid. “Gods, you’re even uglier in the moonlight.”


	18. How to waste a good vintage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JAIME'S POV

KING’S LANDING – A FUCKING SLUM WHERE WENCHES SHOULDN’T GO

The wench wasn’t only homely, she was thick as a wall and stubborn past the point of sense.

Keeping an eye to his blood bay and to the two narrow streets crossing at that hole forgotten by Gods, the knight took off his gilded gauntlets and, even if wounded and dazed, she shifted in his arms, making the task more difficult than getting rid of that monstrous being, half beheaded by a single blow in less than a beat of a dragonflies’ wings.

The other outlaws had been distracted by the golden dragons flying everywhere, then they had fled like the disgusting rats they were when he had fell on them with all the force of a warhorse and good steel, but the huge bald man had barely noticed him, too busy in tearing her rags and licking his almost inexistent lips with such a hunger, that Jaime’s stomach still ached, after being chewed by the sensation he had come too late and there was no time, before the beast would close his pointed fangs around the maid’s throat.

_Or on one of her breasts._ The kingsguard diverted his glance, and swallowed one or two sips of wine, before pulling away the tatters of what probably had been a plain blue cape, and wasting such a delightful vintage to wet a piece of the cloth and wash away the blood from her skin.

“You owe me a flask of the best Arbor Gold, my lady, and the equivalent of a dozen stallions in gold, try at least to stay still”, she gaped at him and squirmed uncomfortably enough when Jaime rubbed her broad face, but flinched and croaked something and even tried to hit him, when he arrived down her thick neck and below it, with such ungratefulness that his temper prevailed. “For Gods’ sake, stupid oaf of a wench, we’ve not all the night for us, the rats will come back soon and maybe they might be interested in the insignificant buds you call teats, but, don’t you mind, I’m not such a fool. Not interested”, he repeated, angry to see the tiny red splotches which contaminated her eyes, almost changing the blue in a hideous purple, “thus end this farce.”

Hundreds of freckles rebelled in despair and disdain, as a tide of healthy red crept up her chest to submerge them and the various bruises, but she quieted and trembled just a bit, and soon he was done and could wrap her, rough and ready, in the only clean rag he had, hoping the brooch will hold it properly.

In the end, the wench could count herself fortunate to be alive, with only a pair of cuts and some scratches, and the scar she would bear on her cheekbone wasn’t that big, not worse than her crooked nose or her horse teeth, after all. _With a good maester, it will be scarcely visible. I’ll sent her Pycelle. Now it’s past time we ride back to the Red Keep._

But as the knight mounted ahorse and let her an inch of freedom, she limped away to kneel beside the corpse of a young man, and kept gesturing in a way that could mean only that the corpse wasn’t effectively a corpse - not yet, at least. 

“We’ll send someone for him, now hurry up, my lady.” She didn’t stop trafficking about the stranger, arranging a bandage to stop his bleeding and adjusting his head on a fortune pillow, with a kindness that was quite astonishing for such big hands. _And it's not the only astonishing thing about her._ Yet it wasn’t the right moment to linger and being caught unaware. The cobblestones sang a song of furtive steps, and horses too, but the mounted men were surely too few to be a patrol, and she was still wasting his wine and his time with the scum, stroking lightly his pallid brow and his red hair.

Jaime’s jaw tightened, his patience running really short. “Wench, move that damned arse of yours before I start kicking it till Maegor’s Holdfast.”

She glared at him and choked on some words, bringing a hand to her throat, where the outlaw’s filthy fingers had left their blooded mark. _Only one death, and too a quick one._

“Can’t you talk no more?” She shook her thick head, and her eyes shone even a deeper blue.

“Gods be blessed. Now move, quick, wench.”

She frowned and gestured and Jaime found himself thinking about Tyrion and his crazy attempt of entertaining their father’s guests with some acrobatics. Cursing every freak born in Westeros, he dismounted, quick and lissome, and grasped her arm to drag her away, but the maid mulishly resisted, pointing at the crumbled wall behind the unconscious man with insolent insistence.

C _HILDREN_ , she had written in a suspect crimson, and, just below it, _RED HOUSE, DOWNHILL_.

It was late for fatiguing explanations, maybe too late for everything. Shadows emerged from behind the remnants of a hovel and a hoarse voice bellowed in anger and fury. 

“Hands off my daughter, you fucking Kingslayer.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Bye Biter, see you in hell.


	19. Blue vs gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BRIENNE'S POV

KING'S LANDING - AN EVIL PLACE, WHERE STUPID FREAKS SHOULDN'T EVER VENTURE

Her heart was pulsing fiercely, threatening to rip out her chest, and her throat was raw and aching so badly that she was barely aware of all the other bruises and scratches. When she had tried to speak, she just managed to wheeze something that resembled curiously to the rattle of the leaves in the wind, but, somehow, she had the certainty that even if she had been able to talk, ser Jaime wouldn't listened any word.

Now, Brienne was feeling more or less the same sensation about her father. One look, and she understood that he wasn't in the mood for listening to her or anybody else. The Evenstar could be a stern, harsh man, and his eyes could be very cold, sometimes - unsettling, penetrating eyes, pale as the sky in winter.

 _And I smell of wine and my cape’s gone, the gown’s so torn and tattered to be practically a rag, and I’m half naked, because he has bundled me in his cloak in a way that it covers my …chest, but not the legs...not enough._ Brienne flushed and even the kingsguard that was riding at her father's side reddened and gaped at her laughable sight. _Ser Arys Oakheart_ , she remembered, too concerned to wonder why the young knight from the Reach was here, with Lord Selwyn.

The Evenstar was white and still, like one of the marble statues in the gardens of Evenfall Hall, and in the stiffness of his broad shoulders she recognized the will of eradicating the grin which was brazenly shining on ser Jaime's face. 

_The kingslayer’s face,_ the Maid of Tarth reminded herself, biting her lip and jerking herself free from his hand, before her father could even think about cutting it clean, with the blue steel of his greatsword.

The lion’s smile went sour like curdled milk and his high cheekbones hardened, as he turned against her. “Dark bread and rudeness, that’s how you break your fast in the damp ruins your family pass off as a castle, isn’t it, _my lady_?”

“Get away from her”, bellowed the Evenstar, dismounting, immediately followed by ser Arys, who was plainly as shocked and mute as she was. “Tarth is beautiful”, lord Selwyn added, showing to the moon his white teeth.

“Tarth? That dreadful rock lost in the narrow sea?”, the lion stepped forward, chortling, and his longsword glimmered a threatening gold, “Obviously it’s beautiful, beautiful like a certain maid, so absurdly tall and dumb, to make me fall like a…”

Roaring, the Evenstar crushed on the lion, and blue steel met golden steel, under an appalled moon and a more appalled Brienne, who opened her mouth in a chocked scream, able to do nothing, but staring and thinking how that was stupid, and useless, and dangerous, and Anguy was still unconscious, and the children…

 _The children. The lovely maid with auburn hair, and the shaggy little one, with eyes so bright and bold._ Brienne darted her eyes around, and realized, all of sudden, there were only two corpses, the bald brute who had almost strangled her and the slim outlaw which had been slain by Anguy. _Where are the others? Where is the noseless man?_

“In the name of King Robert, sers, end this folly”, someone was shouting, maybe the younger white cloak, but the clang of blades went on indifferently, and the most foolish thing was that those valiant knights were too drunk with steel to see the dirty shadows creeping up the collapsed building, with the starved gaze of a bunch of begging brothers, but without their holy intentions. 

_A dozen, no two dozen, with spiked cudgels, knives and even long daggers. They all have some weapon of sort… and a nose._ She crouched and raised quick as a cat, and a scream came from the outlaw she hit with the second rock she had picked and thrown, whilst dark blood and something else, slimy and sickening, were dripping from the hole that her first stone had opened in the head of another unknown man.

 _I did not flinch, I did not,_ she thought and hardly noticed that the song of steel was over, and hardly felt the hands on her waist until they lifted her up and flung her on a saddle like a flour sack.

“Go, wench.”

She had just the time to adjust herself and take the bridles, before the horse reared, whinnying his dread and confusion.

“Go, child”, the Evenstar commanded, his eyes filled with a fear Brienne had never seen before in them, and someone pushed in her hands something cold, it was a hilt, the hilt of a dagger and it was made of gold, with a row of rubies and lions’ heads. The gems glowed gloomily, but they had half the sparkle of two green eyes piercing through her, then a hand clapped soundly on the courser’s back and they stormed across a wall of bodies, the blood bay kicking and biting, the maid blowing and striking, then striking again.

When she resurfaced, she turned to give a last, desperate look to her father, but tears blinded her, and all she could see was a blur of gold, and blue, and white, and blue again, and gold, restless gold, shining gold.

_The children._

Brienne swallowed her tears, and they burned like liquid fire down her swollen throat, but she could hesitate no more, and spurred her mount.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry


	20. A horse, a horse!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ARYA'S POV

KING'S LANDING - ON THE LONG ROAD TAKING TO A RED HOUSE

_I should have stolen a horse, before leaving the Red Keep._

Her stupid sister was right only about a thing: she was damn slow, with the dress... and the slippers. Silk instruments of torture, they were less than useless on the cobbles and on the hard ground, the Gods must have been in their cups when they invented them. _Mother’s Gods, not the old Gods. The old Gods have invented boots, and cheerful summer snow._ She struggled to ignore the drops of sweat running down her brow and glimpsed again to Sansa, who was limping and doing her best to keep the pace, without complaining.

 _This silent Sansa is a nice girl, after all,_ Arya decided, recalling how her sister hadn't wept or cried out, not even when she had struck her with the back of Needle, to force her letting the cobbles down, and, along with the cobbles, to abandon any hope to subdue someone who will never yield to anyone.

“We should come back to Father”, Sansa had just tried to observe in a whisper, but the Red Keep was far and there was a house, painted in red, just at bottom of the hill, where they could find a shelter till morning, Arya had thus explained her, taking her soft hand and bringing her away.

Since then, they had shared no words, but doubt was darkening her sister's eyes. And not only hers.

The red-haired youth who was with the tall girl seemed a honest guy, and even his name sounded true, but the house he mentioned was nowhere to be seen, and now the she-wolf was wondering if his words were sincere. _His blood was sincere enough, though,_ Arya recalled, and felt ashamed, and suddenly sad, the way she had felt when Nymeria had finally disappeared among the trees and the thick bush.

She chased out her mind the image of the giantess, as she was surely dead by now – the bald man was too big, even for her, and the last time Arya had looked at the tall girl there was an ugly cut on her broad face, just below her right eye, and her thigh was also bleeding, where the noseless man had reached her with his dirk, before her cudgel hit him first on a knee, and then on the back of his head, knocking him down.

 _At least, we'll never seen again that hideous face, or hear the nasal tone of his rough voice._ Sansa brusquely stopped and, when she turned towards her, Arya froze too, Needle in her hand.

“Oh, here we are again. Two girls, not only one. Does your mother know that you're out?”, a nasal voice asked mockingly and it was queer, given that the man had no nose at all. The moonlight run on the edge of his dirk, that was as long as Needle, but wide as a butcher's knife.

_A horse, I should have stolen a horse._

The stinking street resounded of a heavenly sound, and Sansa made out a gasp, her pale face filling with amazement, and joy. The rider fell on them with such a fury then the outlaw had just the time to swear for the last time before the blood bay kicked away the life from his stout body, leaving but a broken, blooded thing on the cobblestones.

Judging from the white-and-gold harness, the warhorse had been definitely stolen from his idiotic owner, but that didn't bother or surprise her too much, and, after all that had happened in this endless, crowded night, Arya found herself very glad to see large blue eyes smiling back at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Rorge, no Saltpans' slaughter, no starving orphans at the Crossroad Inn... Phew!


	21. Why?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NED'S POV

THE MOST STINKING CITY EVER, DOWN IN THE FUCKING SOUTH

By the way, the Hand rebuffed Lord Baelish’s seventh attempt to start a conversation and reached his Tower with long strides, but not rushing, not too much. For Arya’s sake, the less of people knew about her escape, the better it was. Because she had escaped, like that blessed lady Brienne, no doubt about it: a very tall maiden had been seen running out the Red Keep, hand in hand with a red-haired man, both followed by a skinny brat with clothes identical to his younger daughter’s clothes.

As he stepped inside, Ned wondered about waking up Septa Mordane and Sansa, but gave up the thought right away, not wanting to trouble them, and thanking the Gods to have at least one obedient, respectful daughter and good, loyal men always ready and eager to do their duty. 

_Once, in the north. Maybe it’s true that northmen melt like snow down the Neck._ Half the guards of his household were drunk, the other half had passed out around the table, or under it, like Desmond. The lord of Winterfell kicked the snoring body on the floor, and the stout man smiled and sighed in his sleep, as if he had just been kissed by a maiden. The smell of sweat and of a sweet southron wine was so heavy in the hall that even Ned felt dizzy, and for a while, he stared at Harwin who was so deeply entangled to a straw-haired wench, that it was hard to tell where he ended and where she begun.

Then the wolf blood prevailed and, somehow, with an ashamed Jory’s help, a dozen of men recuperated their wits, or, at least, wits enough to dress in chainmail and grey cloaks, and follow him in the warm night. They were few, too few, to sift all the city in the desperate research of Arya, and, when they reached the gate of the Red Keep, the Hand of the King counted only one white cloak. _The only one I can rely on, anyway._

“My lord, I’m sorry but ser Boros and ser Preston are with the King, whilst ser Meryn guards the queen’s room, and ser Mandon is with the prince”, explained ser Barristan.

“And ser Jaime?”, the Lord of Winterfell asked, not even trying to mask his relief for the kingslayer’s absence.

“He wasn’t in his room”, answered flatly the old knight, and goose bumps covered Ned’s skin.

“It seems that the Queen’s brother had something urgent to do at the harbor”, an intoxicating perfume of lavender preceded the bald eunuch’s words. Even this time the Hand hadn’t heard him arriving. “Something about a sea star, maybe.”

“Lord Varys, I don’t have the time, nor the will to listen to your japes or obscure prophecies. I suppose you’re already aware of what had happened, so…”

“A father’s concern is a gift the Gods denied me, yet I’m not an insensible person. I simply found very interesting the fact that a certain ship, that might have been named Sea Star and that might be owned by a great Lord from the Stormlands, won’t be able to sail on the morrow because of a little fire aboard that started so quickly and …strangely.”

Ser Barristan shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, “If you mean that a kingsguard might ever…”

“…soil his white cloak by damaging some sails and some wooden stuff? No, certainly not. I’d merely ask ser Jaime if he had noticed anything weird, given that he was actually at the docks in a dark, rough dress that he normally doesn’t wear, then he had disappeared into an inn… to re-appear not far the Mud Gate, glittering white-and-gold.”

“The Mud Gate”, chewed Ned in a low tone, dismounting to look directly into the Spider’s eyes.

“The name that the commoners give to the River Gate, my lord. There’s a square, with a fish market, from which depart a long street named, with a scarce imagination, River Row. A pretty street, large and clean, well clean for Westerosi standard, but the narrow alleys and eels descending from it towards the walls and the river, well… no wonder, if our prudent ser Janos Slint is very, very reluctant to send the gold cloaks in that gutter. So, it’s really surprising.” The plump man shut up and his lips curved in an enervating smile.

“Lord Varys, what do you find surprising?”, ser Barristan asked.

“Oh. It rained gold, tonight, in that gutter. The equivalent of a dozen stallions, or even more, in dragons, they say”, the eunuch tilted his head toward a stunned Ned, and his little eyes saddened, “but I’m wasting your time, my lord, whilst you should hurry. Only be careful if you’ll pass by the dangerous place I was talking about, you shouldn’t pass there at all, in truth, only a fool or a brazen brat would dare to venture there, now that all the scum of the city will collect there, attracted by that absurd tale.” Ned’s heart risked seriously to stop, and he was drinking any word of the spider as if they were pure water and he were a man on the verge of dying of thirst. “A rain of gold, can you imagine my lord? Not even the Lannisters could… well, maybe they could in the end, if they would, but why they would ever do such a thing? Why? Or for whom, Lord Stark?” 

“I-I have to leave, I have to…”, he stammered like a squire, mounting on his destrier, his hair limp and stuck to his forehead.

“Oh. You have. I told you, you should hurry”, the eunuch took Ned’s bridle and lowered his voice till a murmur, “Hope you’ll find your daughters very soon.”

 _Daughters. It can’t be. Sansa would never…_ A soft touch on his arm, shook him from his awaking dream. The gentle eyes of an old knight were on him, and Jory pressed him. “Where are we supposed to go, my lord?”

Ned turned to the Lord Commander of the Kinsgsguard. “Ser Barristan, can you lead us to the gutter in the nearby of the Mud Gate? The quickest way, not the safest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not easy to be a single dad.


	22. A drunkard's tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SER ARYS' POV

KING'S LANDING - IN THE DANGEROUS WEB OF NARROW ALLEYS AND LANES SOUTH OF THE MUD GATE, WHERE ALSO A KINGSGUARD CAN BE KILLED

It saddened him to think that nobody would ever write a song about this night, yet it was such a starry night, too beautiful a night to die.

No outlaw was more interested in him, and that could only confirm what the knight already knew, since when he had been kissed too roughly by a long knife. _Not the kind of kiss I'd been dreaming of,_ he admitted to himself,and, for a change, he didn't feel dirty or ashamed by the thought, only regretful.

A glance on the small square told him that he wasn't leaving alone, but ser Arys found it a maeger consolation, for him and for his mother, the widowed Lady of Old Oak, whose hands had always been so tiny and delicate.

The scum who had killed the kingsguard had short, calloused fingers, all blooded and so rigid to seem almost claws, now that life had abandoned them, draining out the ugly cut on the stomach that the knight had managed to open, whilst falling to the ground, beside the red-haired stranger. _A young man, not a bad one_ , decided the kingsguard, _with a soaked bandage and a small smile on his face, as if he's only sleeping._

Groaning for the effort, ser Arys moved his hand - his left hand, the right one was dull and insensible - to touch the youth's cheek, and it seemed to him that he was still warm, but the night had been so warm... and glorious, worthy of a song.

He closed his eyes, with the last image of ser Jaime dancing and sowing death with his gilded sword, and the other knight - what was his name - so tall and strong, to seem so much younger than he actually was, holding his greatword with an only hand, since a scarred bitch come from one of the seven hell had mauled his forearm in her jaws. The outlaws had brought their dogs, dogs used to fight in pits, and how the three knights had succeeded to kill them all, it was a mystery even for ser Arys.

 _Ruins and scum and bitches, no one will ever sing a song about it, but there was a maiden, not too fair a maiden maybe, but she's safe now, and ser Jaime, he did what he did, but I've never seen anyone like him with a sword..._ The knight forgot the words he was trying desperately not to forgot, he forgot even his name, and the night swallowed him.

***

There was wine, cheap summer wine in his mouth, and someone stinking of wine was towering upon him. Ser Arys spit and an agonizing pain washed up his body, and he knew he wasn't dead, for the moment.

“No wine, ser? Why, it will help you”, the man wore a grey cloak, stained with vomit, but he was too gentle, in his rough way, to be an outlaw.

“Water”, the kingsgard pleaded with an unrecognizable voice. _Water, clear and pure like a maiden, please_. His gauntlet hand was still on the red-haired's brow, but he had no force to lift it, or to look around, or to ask about his companions.

“Sorry, no water. Only wine. Drink, m'lord, it's good”, the man forced a good sip down the knight's throat and it worked, a bit. “I like ale, strong dark ale form the north, but the wine here's in the south... and the wenches, always half naked. I'm Porther, are you dornish, ser?”

“The Reach”, he complained, and made out a weak yell, when the man poured the disgusting poison on his wounds and started to deal with them. He was using candid stripes of a smooth cloth, silk probably, but they didn't came from ser Arys' cloak.

“Still deep in the south, this Reach, isn't it? I know it sounds like a drunkard's madness, and I've drunk a lot, yet I have to ask you, ser”, the stranger was clearly in his cups, but his hands moved swift and sure, “Are there wildings even in the South, ser? Wildings and... tall spearwives, like in the old tales.”, he added, with a twinkle in his dark eyes.

“No wildings, only fucking dornish.” His answer must have disappointed the northman, because he shut his crooked mouth for a while, and ser Arys closed again his eyes, fighting not to faint again. The rest of the stranger's absurd speech came to his ears like a confused, endless murmur. “Yet you may be wrong, ser. You must be wrong, because when she stepped in, I recognized her, she was a wilding, all rags and long legs, she was surely a spearwife or maybe a wilding queen, her hair was pale and bright like the moon, and she had a precious gem pinned on her breast. She must be a wilding, no woman can hold a dagger like if it were a sword, or be that cut and hurt without making out a sound, but what drives me crazy is that she was surely southron, smelling sweet as the sweetest wine. Gods forgive me, but she was a walking sin... and I wonder how she could be with the Lord's daughters, she was protecting them, that was plain, but why bringing them in such a place...”

“Which place?”, ser Arys croaked.

“Oh. I told Lord Stark when the kingslayer and the other white cloak were too far to hear my words, no will to vex you, but secrets are well guarded with Porther, as m'lady wanted. Maybe I chose the wrong words, though, because at the very beginning m'lord hung me to that wall, over there, like a damned tapestry and he looked every inch a wolf, I swear you by the old gods and the new.”

The kinsguard couldn't help but sigh, and the man misunderstood. “Oh, don't you move, I've almost finished, ser. It's not my fault if it hurts, and it's not my fault if the wilding queen brought the children in a brothel, because it was a brothel, don't stare at me that way, a man has his needs, you know what I mean, you're not a maiden, ser. We see, we desire, we want, that's how it works, but sometimes you can't get what you want and that's shit, but not as much shit as being punched by a blade, I guess. That's all, now it's time to lift you on the saddle, ser, sorry.”

“The...the sleeping guy.”

“The freckled one? He's already on his way to the Tower of the Hand. Now, bite this, ser, it will help”, the man pulled a piece of wood in ser Arys' mouth, “Have I already told you about her long, incredibly long legs? White as snow, with hundreds of freckles, can you see them, ser, wrapped around you?”

The young knight moaned, or tried to moan, tasting wood and wine on his tongue, then the drunkard lifted him, and all went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.


	23. When happiness is just upstairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SANSA'S POV

KING’S LANDING – IN SOME QUEER PLACE, BUT FINALLY SAFE

The red house wasn’t red. Maybe once, years and years before, when Robb wasn’t even born… The walls showed, here and there, a few splotches of a dark pink like ugly freckles on a broad face, and beside the door swung a dusty oil lamp on a heavy chain, with a globe of leaded red glass. Even the glass was covered with dust, and there was a spiderweb, too. She drifted her eyes, before seeing the spider. She hated spiders, with their little eyes and their fat, round body.

The tall girl had helped her dismounting, and Sansa leaned onto her bare arm to get in, because her feet were sore and blistered, and fear was still haunting her. All she wanted was a perfumed bath and Mother, of course, but Mother was in Winterfell with Bran, Robb and little Rickon, so the pretty lady inhaled deeply and let the tears dry behind her eyelids. _We’re safe, now, that’s the only thing that matter, and Father will rescue us as soon as some good fellow will run and tell him we’re here._

The outside of the house had been a disappointment, but the inside was decisively better, she decided when a nice music caressed to her ears, and there was also a trace of perfume, mayhap a bit too heavy and ordinary, and the women wore colorful linen dresses with wisps of silk, a poor silk on poorly sewed gowns, but they weren’t too bad for lowborn people and, besides, in the capital was always so warm that it was normal, after all, to show some more flesh than in the north. Sansa felt proud of herself, she was almost a woman grown, she did need no more her Septa teaching her every little thing.

Since the kind giantess wasn’t able to talk - a bit like Hodor, but Hodor was a simpleton, whilst the girl probably had some wits or she wouldn’t have found them in that hatred web of streets - it was the Hand’s first daughter which had the duty to present herself and her tousled companions, and ask for help. She hadn’t even begun talking that Arya tugged a sleeve of her poor dress, looking at her with alarmed eyes.

“Don’t say a word”, the little she-wolf _commanded_ , she dared to command her, forgetting who was the eldest and most suited - and the prince’s betrothed. “Merry people”, Arya was already saying, the enormous hand of the blond stranger on her tiny shoulder, “don’t bother about us, we just have a thirst… and we can pay.”

From one of her pockets, her little sister pulled out a little purse with coppers and maybe a couple of silver stags, and the fat woman near the window started again singing, and it was like a signal. Everybody turned to do what he was doing before, feasting and dancing even still being sit, in a weird, southron fashion, that was unknown to her, yet it had its strange charm…

A choked sound escaped from the tall girl’s red lips, and Arya sneered, and they were both red as the exquisite fruit from the Reach that she had tasted in the morning… Sansa was too weary and sore to recall its name, and she had really a thirst, as Arya had said, so she sat on a bench and accepted graciously a cup of something dark and sweet - red wine, not good as the one Joffrey had made her sip, but it was good enough. The tall girl refused anything, and she was struggling to hide her shambling body and her lack of good manners in the shadowed corner behind the bench, when a grey-haired woman came close to their small group, and smiled a pleasant smile.

“You’re so lovely to look upon, sweetling”, the woman said, sitting between her and Arya. She had been handsome, once, and was dressed better than all the rest, and had a silver necklace with some little pearls on it. She put a delicate, jeweled hand on her thigh, smoothing the fabric of the gown with her long fingers. “This was really a lovely dress, sweetheart, it’s such a pity… but I think I have something of your size, and the size of this pretty one, in my room… and a tub, for a warm bath, for both.”

“No”, replied brusquely Arya. “No, thank you”, her sister added with an embarrassing delay.

“Forgive my sister, she’s a bit unruly”, Sansa smiled, and was glad to see that the woman wasn’t upset, not at all. It was so easy to deal with commoners, after all.

“I’m Tansy, sweetling. What’s your name?”

“She’s Jeyne”, lied Arya, and lying went easy for her like breathing, “And I’m Beth.”

“And what about your friend, Beth? Has she got a name, too?”, asked Tansy, raising slowly to her feet to look at the tall girl. The woman had a couple of nice slippers, Sansa noticed gladly. “Oh, my nice big girl, don’t frown at me, it won’t be easy to find something of your size, yet anything will be better than these rags of yours, and… oh, but this is silk, the finest silk, and bordered with cloth-of-gold.” Sansa tilted his auburn head, gracefully, as a proper little lady, because ladies don’t stare at people or stick their pretty nose in other people’s business - and ladies can’t see anything, she realized, because she really couldn’t see anything from her position.

The woman was still talking, though. “What’s that, sweetling? A brooch? Oh, what an interesting brooch.”

“Keep your hands off”, hissed Arya.

“Ush, child, don’t interrupt the adult ones. I’m just looking”, Tansy’s voice was soft and sweet, yet it absurdly reminded Sansa the sour, sweetish smell of a rotten peach, “She must be someone, this friend of yours, Beth, or, better, someone important, a very, very important person cares a lot about her, and it’s not that difficult to understand, in the end. She certainly catches the eye, and skills are more important than a pretty face. There’s an ugly cut, here, a rough wooing, sweetheart?” She chuckled, and a little, jeweled hand slipped all over the tall body, carefully, to stop on the tall girl’s swollen lips, and on her cheek. Arya’s friend seemed so uncomfortable at the aged woman’s touch that Sansa felt sorry for her, for her homeliness, it was so bad to be that ugly, for a girl. _And tall. She has no hope to wed, no man will ever notice her, and this is so unfair. She’s kind, she’s not a half-wilding like Arya, who always ruins anything._

So did her sister, even now. She jerked on her feet, and before the blond giantess could grasp her, the unruly child shoved the grey-haired woman... she shoved an aged woman!

And then started a delirium.

A bulky man, with a squat face, stopped Arya, and the tall girl came out with a dagger, a real dagger shining bright in the dim light of the crowded room, and Arya had a sword, a thin blade of true steel in her hands.

“A silver stag for the long-legged spearwife, two silver stags!”, someone shouted with a familiar accent, and some others laughed hard.

“No way, northern scum, that’s a too expensive toy for you. Exotics like that, you’ll find them only at Chataya’s, not in a wretched place like this one”, yelled a shaven man, and the _northern scum_ which resembled to Porther jumped on him, but he couldn’t be Porther of the Hand’s own household, and then there were four people on the floor, spitting and kicking like donkeys, then six, or seven or even more.

Sansa was appalled, whilst Arya looked triumphant. The both of them shouted with indignation when the giantess lifted them from their waists, and cut the crowd like a hot blade into a piece of butter, reaching for the stairs. The drunkard that surely wasn’t Porther tried to stop her, to _sniff_ at her, but the tall girl wasn’t that easy to stop or sniff.

“A golden dragon, I swear, I’ll find it, for one night with the blond wilding. Pleaseee”, were the last words Sansa heard before the heavy door closed behind them. She crouched on the wooden floor, wrapping inelegantly her arms around her legs. It was all so messy, and she was so tattered and tired. _My bath, where’s my bath? Where’s Mother, now that I need her?_

“Sansa.”

“I won’t talk with you, Arya, not now, not in a thousand…”

“Sansa look at me”, this time it wasn’t Arya’s voice, this trembling voice was Mother’s.

The pretty lady was sobbing, now, like a common milkmaid, but it was only joy changed into water, and you can’t stop joy or grief, like you can’t stop snow, Old Nan used to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is the most unreliable POV ever.  
> Even worse than Jaime (maybe).
> 
> Cat meets the girls in KL, and this is pure crack, I know, but I needed it to happen.


	24. The Mother and the Lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CATELYN'S POV

KING'S LANDING - A BROTHEL, OWNED BY PETYR

There was a time for explanations, and a time for life. And now, serried in the embrace with her daughters, Catelyn Tully Stark was just savoring life and feeling happy, and hopeful like she hadn’t been for a long time, too long a time. It was like everything was going to change, and for the better, it was absurd but she had now the certainty that also Ned was arriving, too, after days of yearning, and he would kiss her and tell her that Bran was going to wake soon, and their family was going to be safe…

Slowly, carefully, as if they were made of porcelain, she pushed the girls away, just a bit, just to drink their beauty.

They had grown, somehow changed and grief had left its mark in their eyes, but their mother was there, now, passing her numb fingers through their tousled hair, stroking their arms and smelling the good smell of both, even Arya was smelling so good underneath her filthy clothes, how could Catelyn have ever thought that Arya was anything else but a lovely little she-wolf, her grey eyes were bright like her sister’s now that tears were filling them and she was beautiful, beautiful and harsh and wild in the same time, like only the North could be.

Smiling, Catelyn rose again to her feet, so drunk with joy, that she hadn’t quite noticed the girl, standing uncertain at ser Rodrick’s side.

 _Not a girl, a woman grown and flowered,_ lady Stark corrected herself, _so tall and broad-shouldered, that she could be easily mistaken for a man._ The stout, broad master-at-arms of Winterfell looked almost a sickly boy compared to her. She was washed up by a wave of sympatry, and pity for the stranger, the way her glance darted shily around the room was proof enough that this world was really unforgiving with ugly women. _But for her eyes, all her features are wrong, her nose had been broken more than once, and those lips are no appropriate in a lady’s face. A lady? She hunches her shoulders, and chews her lips, like Arya..._

“Mother, this is a friend of mine”, was saying her little she-wolf.

“She saved us. It was like in a song, we were the damsels in distress” added Sansa, her comely face glowing so irresistibly, that the lady struggled not to hug her again, and again. Arya snorted, but her sister ignored her, “and she played the knight”, the girl concluded with her sweet voice, glaring at the tongue hanging from Aria's mouth. The Hand's ladywife ought to scold at them, but the Hand's ladywife shouldn't have been in a whorehouse, and, besides all, their waking dreams and their bickering tasted like honey in the porridge, simply delightful.

Ser Rodrik fumbled to his whiskers, only to find out they were gone, and had such a queer face, half stunned, half embarrassed… Catelyn reddened, when she realized that the tall girl was wrapped into a white cloth and that was all she had to cover her modesty. Her thick arms and her legs were white and purple, and bare, if not for the tatters of a grey gown, and two giant boots on giant feet. The lady of Winterfell was speechless, and wondered why the stranger had bruises everywhere, dry blood on her hip and a cut on her cheekbone, shivering and feeling suddenly anxious to know what had happened to her, what had happened - or had almost happened - to her daughters.

“Now, it’s time for some explanation, I guess.”, she told the tall stranger, trying to be calm and soft, “Would you sit, my dear, while I stitch that ugly cut, or would you prefer some wine, before, and maybe talk?”

The blond girl shook her head and looked at the door, then at Catelyn with the eyes big and innocent of a doe in a trap, and yet she rattled and groaned, saying nothing but a word. Not a word, a name.

“Brienne”, repeated the Lady of Winterfell, smiling.

“No, it can’t be”, broke in Arya, frowing, “She’s not a stupid lady waiting for a white knight to rescue her.”

“Of course, she is, she must be a lady, in a way”, replied Sansa, a bit uncertain, “Lady Mormont’s way, maybe, as you told Father.”

 _Maege Mormont is half her size, and doesn’t wear rubies._ “Be quiet, girls.” The blood in Catelyn’s veins froze and her fingers ached, when they gently moved the silk aside to revail the details of the precious brooch, pinned on the weird girl’s breast. The ruby reached the size of a dove’s egg, trapped in the strong paws of a golden lion, and even the eyes of the lion were gems - tiny emeralds, shining a menacing shine.

“My lady, you should see also this”, ser Rodrik was leaning towards her, with a blade in his thick fingers. She weighted it in her scarred hands, gingerly. It wasn’t valyrian steel, but it wasn’t a common blade, though. It was a gorgeous, costly dagger, all gold and crimson, very sharp.

Sharp as a lion’s claws.

Catelyn set her glance on the stranger's face, and she saw her doubt, her concern, and she needed no more to question her to know why she looked that lost and pale.

“I wasn’t supposed to be here, was I?”, the Lady of Winterfell told to the Lannisters’ catspaw, and her voice was cold as ice, her heart was hard as a stone, if she still had a heart pulsing in her chest.


	25. Winterfell?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BRIENNE'S POV

KING'S LANDING - IN ANOTHER PLACE FORGOTTEN BY GODS

“Your masters came as guests into my house, and there conspired to murder my son, a boy of seven”, the lady proclaimed, and there was hate, pure hate in her eyes, in her broken voice. The old man, who had seemed a kind man to Brienne, moved to the maid’s side, with the sureness of a seasoned warrior and the sword in his hands was surely no new to fights. “They had him thrown by a tower, and, as he survived, they sent a catspaw to end his life, but the Gods protected my Bran, like now they’re protecting my Sansa and my Arya from the catspaw the Lannisters sent to lure my daughters in a deadly trap. In the name of King Robert, you’ll come with me to Winterfell to confess your crime and await there the king’s justice.”

 _Winterfell. I’ve never been there,_ was the first thought flashing in Brienne’s mind.

 _Father will send me to a Motherhouse, this time_ , was her second thought, even more absurd.

 _If Father is still alive,_ was her third, and she felt choking, a black shroud on her eyes, her mind filled with so many regrets and images, that even ser Jaime’s hateful grin and his mockeries seemed to have a hidden sweetness. _Very well hidden, however. Weariness doesn’t have to confound me, not now._

“Brienne’s a friend, a friend of mine”, was shouting the shaggy child, clutching to her mother’s hips, whilst the other girl recoiled and smiled a thin smile, as if she were elsewhere.

“I call you false friend, Brienne”, the lady’s auburn hair shone a dark red in the oil lamp’s light, like the rubies on the dagger which she had lifted to the maid’s throat. “Arya, be quiet, and go with your sister into the other room, and bar its door, now.” 

“No!”, the little one shouted again, but the white-haired warrior dragged her away, and her sister followed them meekly, still lost in her dreams.

Even Brienne felt lost, terribly lost. There was nothing she could say to persuade the Lady of Winterfell of her innocence, that was clear, and, besides, she could barely say more than a word in a fortnight and in a fortnight the lady would have brought her so far, far from her father, from Renly, from all the people she had met and loved the most… for a brooch.

 _For_ his _brooch. The gods above are getting a bit distracted, maybe._

 _Like the lady,_ noticed Brienne, and she made her move. It was even too easy to get rid of the dagger on her throat, its point caressed her skin before the blade hit the floor, but Brienne felt no pain, all her strength in the legs that were already running, towards the door, and then the stairs.

The grey-haired procuress shouted at her passage, and the maid couldn’t help but recall to herself that she had to thank Anguy for his great counsel, Anguy had to survive this night, and so her father, ser Arys and ser Jaime, all of them were surely safe, they must be, and she was going to be safe, in a few, more steps… She turned as the stairs cornered, and heard the _thump_. Not even a loud _thump_.

Her body fell like a dead body fell, and someone dragged it, then pushed a hood on the throbbing thing that used to be her head and wrapped a rope around her wrists, but Brienne was alive, listening, and smelling.

_It’s curious, after all. Bravery smelled of sweat, treachery smells of mint._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once upon the time there was a boy of 14/15 yo, who was in love with a fair maid and, for her, wearing only a helm, challenged into duel a man 20 yo - a wolf, not a bear, yet... 
> 
> He got nearly killed, then banished from the place that had been his home since his childhood. The fair maid favored the wolf, never spoke to the heart-broken boy again, and wed the wolf's brother when the first was murdered, becoming the caring mother of five and the terrible stepmother of one.
> 
> Welcome to Westeros.  
> It's Petyr who is the outcast - Catelyn is Westeros, and she rebels to Westerosi rules only twice, saving both the kingslayers (true or supposed ones).  
> I love them both, in a way.


	26. No chance, and no choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NED'S POV

KING'S LANDING - INSIDE A FILTHY BROTHEL OWNED BY A FILTHY MAN

He couldn’t help but stare at Catelyn, her trembling hands, with the ugly scars, the stiffness of the last two fingers of her left… the coldness in her eyes. The room was filled with the sour stench of fear, of doom, with a faint trace of mint, so good and fresh to be sickening.

“She’s only a girl, two or three years older than Robb”, he repeated.

“She saw us”, said shrilly the woman that used to be his wife.

“So she did”, he admitted, and felt so hollow, so old and tired. He could barely sense the cut on his leg, given so generously by one pox-faced man, slender and swift, but not swift enough. The fight had ended in a slaughter, the cleverest of the scum fleeing away, the others dying loudly on the sticky cobblestones.

“She saw you, my lady, and your master-at-arms, and the children, but if she could be persuaded to keep silent about Bran and the incident with the Lannisters…”

“You hit her”, replied Ned, looking at the thin man and his pointed beard.

“And hooded her, so she didn’t see me, nor you, my lord, at least”, Lord Baelish yawned. “Yet, your lady had been seen, and recognized.”

“We could try to explain everything”, said Ned, and in his mind the Lannister woman’s lips curved in a smug smile.

“She’s one of them, she must be”, Catelyn was still trying to deceive herself, “the dagger is a proof. Both daggers are a proof. And my hands, I’ll show my hands to the king. You know Robert since your childhood, Ned, he will listen to you, he must.”

Ned kept silent, the face of a butcher’s boy swam up before his eyes again, cloven almost in two. “Robert…”, he didn’t finish his sentence, he couldn’t, not in front of Catelyn. _She has gone through too much, all by herself._

Littlefinger rose on his feet, slow, as a lazy snake waking in the sun. “Two daggers, and the corpse of a catspaw?”, he asked them with a smile, “Corpses lose the taste of a good conversation, I fear, whilst young women are always chatting amiably, how beautiful your dress is, how it suits you, why a dagger in the innocent hands of a maiden not-too-fair? It must be a love gift, uncommon maybe, but the brooch is so cute! Its ruby goes well with the crimson spots all over her body. Oh, it’s blood, so thrilling. However, it is known, you can’t really aspire to become the Lady of Storm’s End if you’re not carried off once or twice. Which gown will you wear the day of Lord Stark’s beheading?” 

“Enough.” Catelyn’s beautiful features were twisted with shock and fear, and Ned repented to have shout so loudly.

_The children. Sansa and Arya, they’re in the other room, with ser Rodrick and the girl…_

_A father must protect his children. Only one life, the life of someone who’s nought to me, against Robb and Sansa and Arya and Bran and Rickon…_

Somehow, Ned knew what Brandon would have done and, from the desperate plea in her eyes, Ned knew what Brandon’s bride would have done. _No chance, and no choice, if it comes to that, isn’t it, Catelyn? Yet it’s not Brandon you wed, in the end._

With a sharp move, he swirled on himself, pacing towards the door, towards the girl, the valyrian steel dagger still in his hands. _Hooded, and tied, whilst her father is dying, or already dead._ An image struck in his mind. The giant man and the young kingsguard, both covered with blood, whilst the Kingslayer was still standing, golden and magnificent, swirling the gilded sword that had drank the mad king’s blood, showing no scratches or signs of tiredness. _No one can win this man, not tonight_ , Ned had thought, _he’s fighting for something else than his life. Not something, someone._ And Ned had fought, side by side with the Lannister, for his little girls, letting the wild flows in his veins… till it was all done, and a wine-smelling Porther had told him his ladywife and his daughters were waiting for him in a brothel.

 _Brothel or not, they’re safe, and I meant them to keep safe._ Lord Baelish’s body was the only wall between him and his daughters, and Ned was glad to cut it in a thousand pieces, if necessary.

“Not under my roof, Stark.”

“I’m not going to kill her.”

“Free to kill yourself, then”, he stepped aside. “Count yourself fortunate that ser Ilyn is a very gifted headsman, and don’t worry about your ladywife. She’s too handsome to remain long a widow.”

It was more than Ned could bear. He let fall the dagger and threw the short man to the ground, with all the fury that had been mounting in him since he had left Winterfell. It was hard for ser Rodrick to tear them apart, and blood flowed copious from Littlefinger’s broken lips, but still he smiled, and Catelyn’s face was the reason of his triumph. 

“For Gods’ sake, Ned, Petyr is the only one who helped us …” _Petyr_.

“I tried, my lady, and I’ll never repent to have tried to help you. Yet there’s still something that I can do, to save your children from the war that lord Stark wants so desperately”, Littlefinger closed the door that ser Rodrick had left open and brought an immaculate handkerchief to his face. It became immediately red. “Give me the girl”, he murmured, so soft that it was hard to hear him.

Catelyn leaned to her husband’s arm, warm and hopeful, but Ned opened his mouth in distrust.

“I have a small keep, a few sheep, nothing of interesting, on the smallest of the Fingers. No one dares to disturb the dreadful quietness of that remote place, and my servants are loyal. Let pass the storm, and then who will ever notice a ship sailing in the night? The lady will be treated as befit her rank, and, in a few weeks, she will sleep her travel back to her father’s home. She won’t ever know, it will be like a dream.”

“A dream…”, murmured Catelyn.

“Her father…”

“Her father is dead, or near to death, you told us. If he’ll survive, he will be glad to see again her daughter and forgive her absence. He’ll make her visit by a maester and wed her to Renly or any other fool. If not, she’ll be Lady in her own right, and too busy to mourn.”

Littlefinger made it sound quite reasonable, but it was a folly. Then the folly really begun, outside.

“Too late”, added the owner of that place forgotten by Gods, and, for the blink of an eye, he looked concerned, “Now, you’ll be obliged to give back the girl to him. Along with the dagger and the brooch, I guess.”


	27. The right croak, at the right time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ARYA'S POV

KING'S LANDING - INSIDE THE RED HOUSE, WHICH ISN'T RED AND IS ACTUALLY A BROTHEL (DON'T TELL SANSA)

Father rushed downstairs, with ser Rodrick and the other man whose pleasant, mocking voice she had never heard before, and Mother was alone, weeping. Her sobs passed through the thick door, and Arya knew what it had to be done, and quickly.

Father and his honor were good things, for sure, but the stranger man was right about the fact that a well-placed blade buys a man's silence forever, or a woman's. The tall girl had seen and done too much, what exactly she had seen or done was still a mystery for the she-wolf, but she was a threat for Bran or whoever else of the pack, that's was plain enough even for a nine-years-old and she had still Needle. In all that turmoil, no one had ever noticed its winking steel.

 _She's nothing to me. Nothing but a piece of meat._ Yet life pulsed its protest vehemently in that thin blue vein running on her thick neck, which was already spotted with dry blood and stupid, girlish freckles. The she-wolf hesitated, for less than a heartbeat, and then it was too late.

“What are you doing?”

“The only thing left to do. The right one”, she corrected herself, looking up at her sister, savoring suddenly the taste of blood on her lips. “You heard Mother”, she concluded, but Sansa didn't recede.

“You heard Father.”

It was a good reply, but not good enough. “No matter she's a girl...”

“And no matter she saved us?”, Sansa looked older, and somehow stronger. _No, she's always the same, idiotic girl dressed in silk and dreams._

“Have you nought but snow between your ears? She wasn't helping us, Sansa, not really, she's one of them. A lioness, and Lannisters were our guests in Winterfell when they... they tried to kill Bran.” The last words burned Arya's scratched lips, as they came to life. Just thinking of Bran's broken body had the power to send shivers up her spine and make her feel so angry. A muffled sound came from under the hood, and made the she-wolf even angrier. _She only feigned to be unconscious, like a cat feigns to be asleep to trick stupid little birds. But I'm not a stupid little bird._ The she-wolf stepped forward, only to find a wall as thick as her sister's head.

“They, they were in Winterfell. But I've never seen Brienne there.”

 _Brienne. She has a name. And a father, she croaked something about her father whilst she was bringing us here._ The shouts coming from the outside dusted away any spiderweb from Arya's mind.

“You're too dumb to understand, but can you hear, at least?” Sansa paled and blue eyes filled with such a fear that Arya almost desired to be able to be gentle with her sister, for once. Yet there was no time to spare, so she pressed on. “Tell me, sister, if she isn't one of them, why the Kingslayer is downstairs, threatening to kill Father and Jory and everybody else, if this _fucking wench_ of his doesn't re-appear soon?”

“Don't know”, Sansa's eyes sparkled, and she moved too quick to be really Sansa, “Just ask her.”

Now that her foolish sister had removed the hood, and the tall girl's eyes stared at her like two moons, enormous and unbearably calm, it was more difficult to see her like a piece of meat, which needed to be cut into many tiny pieces and hidden into the chimney before the Kingslayer could find her, and tell the Queen that the North knew about Bran.

“If you won't ask her, Arya, I will. Are you a Lannisters' catspaw, Brienne?”

 _Ask the innkeeper if there are fleas in his beds_ , thought Arya, when the giantess shook her head.

“Then why that brooch, and the dagger, why is the Kingslayer shouting your name?”

The tall girl gave in a shrug, looking stunned, and swallowed, her face twisted in a grimace. Her words were rasping and hoarse like a death rattle, and difficult to understand. She groaned of stars and islands and other murky things, and Sansa’s eyes became as large as a toad’s, then finally Arya heard something that had a sense.

“Punch”, she interrupted the prisoner, “you said p _unch_. You’re the one who punched the Kingslayer. Gods, you’re even more stupid than Sansa, you should have told it before.”

Brienne-thick-as-a-wall and Sansa-the-perfect-dumb scowled at her in the same exact second, and Sansa made out a gasp, when she stuck her with the pointy end of Needle.

_Oh, Jon, this one was for you, too. I wish you were here to see her face._

Sansa’s face was gloriously pink when she looked down, half bewildered and half wolfish, at the glowing red drops in her precious hand, so talented with embroideries. And when Arya spit on the little cut, oh, that was good, so good. She felt almost home, in Winterfell, with Jon and her other brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Arya looks a bit psycho, here... she's one of the best, but I'm afraid that she isn't the quintessence or rightness and kindness. 
> 
> Thank you for reading


	28. Emerald daggers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BRIENNE'S POV

KING'S LANDING - ON THE WAY BACK

_A pact is a pact. No time for being shy_. A part of Brienne wanted only to come back upstairs, and die. The dagger was certainly more merciful than what was waiting her. _The dagger, I forgot it._ She wondered if the Lady would bring the blade with her to Winterfell, and if the girls would have followed their mother, too. The only time the maid had glanced at her shoulders, they were embraced so tight that a lump had formed in her throat, and, somehow, she had felt a filthy intruder.

_No time to turn on my heels, no time to be just a stupid girl. I’m the heir to Tarth, and Father needs me._

The common room, which had been so crowded with music and drunk people, was now empty and dark. It was a great relief. _Maybe they won’t be so many people outside. Six, seven people, no more._ She felt slightly better, then _he_ started singing _that_ song again and her legs became wobbly, and all her cuts and scratches began singing in chorus their painful song. Even their new little companion on her palm cried out all its disapproval.

 _I will never forgive him, for calling me that way,_ the maid promised to herself, then limped her way among the tables, eager to end that agony, and ready to face the men outside with all the dignity and composure she could manage. Besides, she was used to scorn and mockeries, so the fact she would be less dressed than the ladies of this godless place couldn’t bother her. Nothing could bother her, after all that had happened in that absurdly long night. Nothing.

She inhaled deeply and opened the door. The moonlight caressed her and Brienne felt almost good, then her eyes grown accustomed to the light and she saw, and counted. _So many. Just ignore them, and go. Nothing can trouble you. Nothing._ A horse neighed, and then she noticed them.

Bright flames of green, staring at her, roaring at her, and a smile so white to seem a little lune, just stolen from the sky. 

She felt dying, a slow, inglorious death. _The dagger, I should have chosen the dagger._


	29. The Queen and her groom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JAIME'S POV

KING'S LANDING - IN ANOTHER PLACE WHERE WENCHES SHOULDN'T GO

There was no need for proof to know that honorable Ned Stark was lying.

Littlefinger had been far steadier and convincing in his falsehood, before riding away, but the new Hand was such a poor liar, that even the Lord Commander looked hesitant, almost ready to get inside that ramshackle building and find the wench. Because the wench was surely there, under that timber roof, in a house that had nothing of red, if not the name written onto a battered sign, scarcely visible, and a dusty, unequivocal glass lamp.

“The Hand is right, ser Jaime, this is no place for a lady”, repeated ser Barristan, furrowing his brow.

 _She’s no lady. Ladies don’t wear breeches and use vile tricks to punch a knight off-guard_ , he wanted to reply, but the words that blurted out of his mouth were a bit different, but always too kind for that bunch of stinking northmen. They were staring at him, and underneath their steel caps and their cloaks too grey and thick for the city, they were sweating hate and tension. Even the watchmen that had joined them at the end of the fight looked troubled. _Fear blinds them, because they’re all preys. Except three, and the third can be my man._

Ignoring Stark’s curses, Jaime wheeled his arranged mount towards the captain of the Mud Gate, a knight whose will was as strong as the iron of his hand, when it came to certain futile things like honor. All those talks of ladies and maidens had sowed doubt in ser Jacelyn Bywater’s deep-set eyes, and, despite all the praises for his valor at Pyke, he was still a poor man, obliged to serve Slynt - a butcher’s son which only talent was in counting the coppers he gained with bribes and other filthy traffics.

“Ser Jaime, with all the due respect, if the Hand insists that the lady is not there…”

“Ser Jacelyn, with all the due courtesy, I’d gladly exchange your respect with some of your men.” The captain’s jaw hardened. “The quickest ones, to have the quickest look”, Jaime almost murmured, before raising again his voice loud enough to clean the wax in his Lord Commander’s ears, and cover a stubborn rouncey that was neighing and kicking in that mockery of stable behind him, “Ser Barristan was wise to remind us that men shouldn’t speak when the blood is still hot from a fight, and surely no one should ever question the Hand’s words”, A part of the tension dropped from Ironhand’s shoulders, Jaime could see it plainly. “Yet, anybody knows it, Lord Stark is too honorable a man to frequent whorehouses and to know how shrewd whoremongers can be… what if he’s wrong?”

“We’re wasting our time here”, yelled a man too old to be that bold, and Jaime grinned.

“Time? Is this only a matter of time?”, he roared above the crowd, “Then, give me a dozen of your men, ser Jacelyn, to run inside with wings on our feet, and be back in less than the time a northman needs to realize that there’s such a pleasant thing in the sky, here in the south and, yes, it’s called sun.”

Yells rained from the guards of the Hand, but chuckles spread among the gold cloaks, that were trice the wolves. Ironhand gave un uncertain look to ser Barristan, who kept silent, finally, giving Jaime the opportunity to go on with his speech, “Five golden dragons for each of the swift youth of the City Watch who will follow the brave captain and me inside, a hundred golden dragons and the King’s gratitude for the valorous who will find the maiden, and bring her back to her lord father.” 

A golden wave of excitement moved in the moonlight, the men already arguing about who would have the privilege to be paid to enter a brothel. _I won. Gold won_ , he corrected himself, _gold always wins_.

Yet Ned Stark’s eyes were far from being doomed. His guards serried around him, and they were all mounted, with the only exception of the old man who had helped Jaime to cast his net.

“My lord Hand, ser Jaime, this is folly”, warned ser Barristan, and Ironhand moved his horse to the kingsguard’s side. He rode a nice destrier, far too good for a mere captain of the City Watch, a blood bay which probably came from the Westernlands. The damned Stark started saying something, but Jaime’s mind was distracted by some detail he couldn’t focus correctly, and there was again that rouncey, kicking and neighing…

 _Rounceys don’t kick._ Feeling the stupidest of all Lannisters since the Age of Heroes, Jaime dismounted and launched himself towards the unguarded stable, finding the proof that Ned Stark was a liar - a four-legged proof, the white and gold of the harness making a pleasant contrast with his blood coat.

“Ser Jaime, what…”

“Ser Barristan”, he interrupted the white-haired knight, the bridles trembling in his hand whilst he advanced towards the house, “this is the horse I gave the lady Brienne. Trust your eyes, sers, brave men of the City Watch, look at the roaring lion on the stallion’s flanks”, a shocked silence shrouded the place, and Jaime turned against the barrier of horsemen hiding the Stark of Winterfell. “She’s there”, Jaime couldn’t help but shout, struggling not to jump at the Hand’s throat, “and I won’t move until that fucking wench will show her ugly face out of that damned brothel.”

Someone made out a choked sound, and there she was, bathing in the moonlight as if she had just fallen from the sky, and blinking as if she had just woken from some weird dream.

The Starks guards parted, quite unconsciously, unnerving the stallion, and she limped gracelessly through the stunned men, giving the silent lion just a quick glance, the glance a queen could reserve to a stable boy _. A groom, the wench believes me to be her groom,_ Jaime thought as she came in his direction, and took gently the reins from his hand.

“Father”, was the only word she managed to wheeze out, her eyes low, her voice so hoarse and thick that Jaime was caught again off-guard, because that wasn’t merely a word, it was a question, a question to which he was almost afraid to answer.

 _Not here, not now, Brienne,_ he wanted to explain, forcing her to recall where she was, where he was, and with whom. But it took him too much to say a stupid sentence to the stupidest of all wenches, so she recoiled and stole his blood bay for the second time in a night, and she was already galloping away, ignoring ser Barristan’s calls, ignoring anyone and anything, before Jaime could even try to stop her, but not before he could see a sparkle underneath her pale eyelashes, and the crude mark of the hemp on her pale skin.


	30. The Warden of the East

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SER BARRISTAN'S POV

KING’S LANDING – THE RED KEEP

The Septa frowned and complained, “My beloved isn’t a sack of flour.”

“Believe me, good sister, your _beloved_ is much heavier than a sack of flour”, answered the King, breathing heavy, “yet I’m still strong enough to carry a maiden, and with no help. Is she still a maiden, isn’t she?” 

“The lady Brienne is the most honorable and noblest of all ladies, Your Grace”, Septa Roelle proclaimed stiffly, and this time it was the Lord Commander to breathe, relieved, because for a moment he had feared she would have slapped the King. “It’s just to prevent foul rumors that I’ve called seven holy sisters to visit her, three devoted to the Maiden, three devoted to the Mother and one to the Stranger, like the Seven-Pointed Star requires.”

“No one else?”, jested King Robert, laying the girl down on her bed, with more gentleness than ser Barristan could ever imagine, given the impressive size reached in the last years by the monarch. To increase his wonder, the king passed his fingers through the lady’s hair, to free her quiet face from the strands that had fell on her eyes, a gesture so kind and rare, that seemed almost an apology. 

Yet the Septa could find no peace. “No one else”, she confirmed, pale and dignified, covering her protected with a red coverlet and glaring at the Grand Maester, “I’d never let that old junk to lay his filthy fingers on my lady.”

“Your Grace, I forged my chain in Oldtown when this horrible woman wasn’t even born and…”, began the Grand Maester Pycelle, stroking his long beard.

“Oldtown is such a vicious place. And about you, your beard can be white, but your heart is black like the pearls on your chain. I recognize the such of you, and you gave my lady the milk of the poppy, without her consent, deceiving her.”

“I-I… Your Grace, that was necessary…”

“ _You_ weren’t necessary, Septa Donyse has cleaned and stitched her wounds in the best way, and any daughter has the right to stay with her father”, the horrible woman in white replied, and, for once, the kingsguard had never to object to her words. When he and the king had entered the chamber where the Evenstar was resting, the maid was crouched at a side of his enormous bed, her head resting on his hand, looking almost a child who had cried herself to sleep. _A child a bit too grown to be moved by Septa Roelle and Septa Donyse, maybe._

“Your Grace, the lady Brienne’s throat is in such a state, she couldn’t even speak…”

“Enough”, roared the king, “I came back here to talk with the lady, but it seems that even the Protector of the Realm must wait sometimes. Then, I’ll wait. Ser Boros, you will guard the lady and inform me as soon as the Evenstar and his daughter will wake up.”

_If the Evenstar will wake up_ , thought bitterly the Lord Commander, glimpsing with little sympathy at ser Boros, who looked terrified at the idea of remaining longer with the blunt Septa in that comfortable quarter, whilst a great lord was risking to lose an arm, if not worse, and even one of their brothers was fighting for his life. _The lost girls are all safe, but the price has been high. Lord Selwyn, Ser Arys, that young man - and the lion and the wolf were almost jumping to each other’s throat, but why?_ The more he thought about it, and the more the old knight was convincing himself that they had avoided the start of a war, in the last, foolish hours.

Looking at the king dark face, he wondered how long the frail peace would last. The pile of bad news had made His Grace reactive and practically sober, yet his patience was almost over. The Great Maester must have sensed something, because he bowed respectfully and took his leave, as soon as they had passed in the small, but lavishly furnished, hall, which connected the two large bedrooms.

“Ser Preston, leave us and try to rest. It seems none of the kingsguard has slept, tonight”, commanded the King and waited until the knight vanished, quick as a water snake. “Now that we’re alone, ser, do you believe that I’ll be able to speak with the Hand, before this damned night will end?”

The Lord Commander shook his white head. The cobblestones were still resounding with the steps of ser Jacelyn Bywater’s gold cloaks, marching street by street, alley by alley, finally cleaning that part of the city, which was half a ruin, and half a sewer, and Lord Stark had prudentially stopped at that _red house_ , with his children and his guards. Except for a few scratches he was well, at least, and only two of his men had been wounded, but not too seriously.

The king snorted. “Then I have no other chance to summon ser Jaime and listen to his version, first. The Queen will be glad.”

Ser Barristan’s stomach gave a twitch, but a white cloak serves, and obeys. He prepared himself to face the Kingslayer, before bringing him to the king’s solar, yet he’d never think to face him so soon, just in front of the door taking to the apartment assigned to the Evenstar.

“Ser Jaime, I just told the Lord Commander to summon you”, said king Robert, coldly, without arresting his march towards Maegor’s Holdfast.

“Your Grace”, the Kingslayer bowed gracefully, then reached again His Grace with long strides, fresh and relaxed, the usual grin on his lips. _If not for the blood on his golden armor, you’d bet that he has been sleeping all day long._

“Eager to talk with me, before any other, ser? Where’s your cloak, for Gods’ sake?”, asked the king, his mood black as the thick beard covering his face. 

“Lost, Your Grace, in the skirmish…”

“Skirmish? You call the mess of tonight a skirmish?”, the king bellowed, stopping in the middle of a little yard, _that_ little yard. “So, what, ser. Explain me. You dare to come to me, perfect and golden and without any scratch, while ser Arys has lost more blood than his mother gifted him, and the Evenstar… and his daughter, a maiden, she will wear a scar on her face for the rest of her life and she was ugly even before…”

Ser Barristan brought a hand on the hilt of his sword, maybe he was too tired and wary, but for a moment he had believed that the Kingslayer was about to repeat the dreadful act that had made him so notorious.

“Do you take me for a fool, ser?”, king Robert seemed to have lost any restraint, and his words echoed in the darkness, “I know what happened between you and the Maid of Tarth, I know she escaped because of it, and that was the beginning of all this shit. I’ve been a fool to made you the Warden of the East, I should have listened to the Hand and grant the title to Jon Arryn’s son.”

“I never asked for such honor, Your Grace”, replied ser Jaime, his green eyes sparkling.

“True enough. _You_ didn’t ask, ser, and an anointed king never commits mistakes”, said the king, squaring his shoulders. “You are, and you’ll remain, the Warden of the East, and it’s time for you to do your duty. Ser Barristan, remind me, is Tarth eastern enough to be comprehended into ser Jaime’s custody?”

The Lord Commander startled, “Tarth is under the direct protection of the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, but technically this can’t exclude the Sapphire Island, like any other eastern land, from the benevolent and respectful shelter offered by the Warden of the East.”

King Robert turned again towards the younger kingsguard, which had gone very pale and very quiet. “See, my beloved good-brother? I don’t believe Lord Renly will move any objection, in every case, since he’s also part of our wonderful family”, he patted on ser Jaime’s back and smiled a smug smile. “What are you waiting for, ser? Go, do your duty, and guard the East, and _guard her_ , the heir to Tarth and _my_ ward. Be her shield, don’t lose her sight not even for a heartbeat, taste her food before she’ll eat it and… no need of more talks, you already know what is to be a very dutiful guard.”

The king’s words sent a shiver along ser Barristan’s spine, but the Kingslayer was still as a statue. _A statue of the Warrior, palpitant and deadly, in its absolute beauty._

“One last suggestion, ser. Go to the White Sword Tower and pick up something appropriate, before going to the lady’s room. You must wear something immaculate to remind you that you’re no more your bloody father’s heir, mustn’t you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a bit long, sorry!


	31. The wise side of the coin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CERSEI'S POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, but Cersei needs to say something about this endless night.

KING'S LANDING - THE WHITE SWORD TOWER

As she climbed the winding steps of White Sword Tower, the Queen could hear Ser Preston snoring loudly in his cell. Ser Arys’ door was slightly open but she didn’t need to glimpse inside, to know the man was badly injured, maybe too badly. _Hopefully there will be a vacant place in the kingsguard. A pity that Lancel is too young, but mayhap I have another solution._

She nodded to ser Meryn to made him wait for her and stepped inside Jaime’s bedchamber, closing the door. _He’s so beautiful, all gold and wildfire, like a true lion must be_ , she thought, and wanted nothing more than him to ravish her, tearing her white silk and costly myrish lace. Then she remembered why she had come, her nostrils flared with the smell of sweat and blood, and she hurried towards the jug posed on a little table. It wasn’t Arbor Gold, nor Dornish red, unluckily, just a common summer wine.

“Cersei”, he said, staring at her like she was the Maiden made flesh, “Why are you here?”

“Where else should I be?”, she retorted, almost tempted to throw her cup at his stupid raised eyebrow, and made there blossom a second pretty poppy. “At the harbor?”

His jaw tightened, and he finally stopped collecting his white rags.

“You were seen, you dumb, just before the fire started on the dock of _that_ ship.” _The Sea Star_ , had told her Lord Baelish, and she had thought that the _Sea Walrus_ would have been a more appropriate name, even if a moustache was the only horror that the Gods had denied to that ugly, shambling creature.

“I detest fires. I’ve nothing to do with it”, her twin protested, sounding quite convincing. “I was there to get some… information, nothing else”.

“Oh, information. You’re such an idiot, brother. At least, you are still able to say a lie, you just have to ameliorate its _credibility_ ”, she smiled, pouring some wine for him.

“I never lie to you, Cersei.”

“All people lie, clever people learn how to lie before they learn to speak, that’s the only difference”, she drank in his place, feeling Jaime’s eyes all above her slender but sinuous body, as if he wanted to undress her. _Not now, you have deserved nothing, yet._ “Not that I blame you, a Lannister always pays his debts, only you should have been more …discreet. Luckily for you, it seems that also the Hand’s daughters chose this night to have a nice walk in the city’s gutter.” Jaime finally reached for his cup, and took a long sip. A red drop lingered on his lips, and the Queen restrained herself from ordering him to kiss her. 

“Are they well?”

She shrugged, “Wolves are not that easy to kill, as you’ve already learnt, supposedly.” He closed his hand in a fist, and Cersei smiled again, patiently. _Men are such fools, always using muscles instead of their brain, admitting they do have a brain._ “However, I instructed the right people to spread the tale you rode in your shining armor to rescue that hideous Maid of Tarth and help the Hand finding his wild pups. Don’t worry, the city will soon resound with a song of your bravery, and why not… maybe some singers will remember that the three girls were found in a brothel…”

Her foolish twin chocked on his wine, and coughed and spat.

“For Gods’ sake, Jaime, it’s just summer wine, not poison”, the Queen ran her emerald eyes around the spare chamber, “I wonder where you hid the Arbor Gold I gifted you.”

Jaime was fighting for every breath, it seemed, his radiant skin turning almost purple, and for the first time in her life, Cersei Lannister realized they weren’t that much alike, in the end. She waited, and waited, until he recomposed himself, more or less. His eyes were still open wide, like if was seeing a shadow, instead of the most beautiful of the women.

“Console yourself, brother”, she added, trying to dissimulate her increasing irritation, “a maiden not-so-fair is waiting for you to be her shield and starvald. It could be like in a song, if the lady would be gentle and make an effort to be more pleasant… maybe throwing herself from a tower, like that dornish whore who birthed Ned Stark’s bastard.”

“Lady Ashara…”, he begun, his face pale, and she misliked his tone.

“…was a Dayne, like your poor ser Arthur, and they say she had a decent face, not a freckled horror. However, the Evenstar was so nice to get almost killed, and the Grand Maester made sure his daughter will sleep all the time you’ll need…”

“What are you talking about?”, Jaime was clearly appalled.

 _Gods. He must have hit hard his head, during the skirmish._ “Collect _information_. Recognize the danger and, if necessary, … Must I say the words?”

If possible, he looked even more appalled, now. The Queen lent him a letter. He read, and his eyes sparkled in that intimidating way that she loved the most. “Cersei. This was directed to me.”

“I’m the elder and I need to protect you from that wretched imp, or little bear, if you do prefer”, the Queen admired Jaime’s strong legs pacing restlessly on the floor, and poured more wine, for both. “For once, Robert’s decision could be not that terrible, after all.”

He shook his golden curls, and drank all in one breath, looking terribly annoyed and still pale. Cersei couldn’t help but sneer. “Time to do your duty, my lovely wetnurse”, she lingered before the door, “I did a bit of your work, brother, so you will need no more to waste your time and your gold in the narrowest alleys of this awful city. Your gorgeous, wise twin has easily discovered why that ugly cow has arrived in King’s Landing.” _Lord Baelish is so helpful, sometimes, or at least he is, with people able to win his bashfulness, and Pycelle will provide some information, too._ “Think, Jaime, she’s here to wed Renly Baratheon.” She struggled to understand if her twin was still listening to her, it seemed he had some troubles with his stomach. “And the most exciting thing is that she loves him, blindly, being such a stupid to think that Loras Tyrell is just Renly’s best friend, can you guess?”

No, Jaime couldn’t guess, or share his sister’s amusement. He was too busy in retching a revolting mix of wine and bile, and the Queen retired, more bored than disgusted. _At least, Robert can bear a cup or two._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I confess, a little bear wanted to show his paw... and I'm fond of little bears, most of all if they waddle in the snow, making new, unlikely allies.


	32. A bed is worth another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JAIME'S POV

KING’S LANDING – THE RED KEEP

The pretty one was asleep in her father’s arms, whilst the ragged thing that was clutching herself to Ned Stark’s back was awake, full awake, judging from the grimace she made at the kingsguard.

Ser Jaime of House Lannister waited beside the Gate until any gold cloak and any grey cloak had passed, exchanging a few words with ser Jacelyn Bywater, and smiling fondly, very fondly, to the Hand, with all the love one can put in one only smile. Somehow, even if he was straight on the saddle, the wolf seemed older, much older than the day they had met in Winterfell, whilst the lion had never felt that young.

 _Not young like him, though._ The skinny lad who entered the last into the Red Keep, his head low as if he was memorizing every cobble, was more a child than a lad, and certainly not a guard, nor a northman. Jaime’s grin widened as he noticed the colors of the brat’s shirt.

“You. Yes, lad, I’m talking with you”, the child looked at him hesitant, and utterly lost. “You’re from the Westernlands, aren’t you? Have you ever helped a knight with his armor?”

The lad nodded, and nodded again. _It’s raining numbs, tonight. Tall and blond, or starved and brown-haired, numbs for every palate._

“Do you know who I am?”, the kingsguard asked and, for a moment, he caught in his breath, expecting the brat to call him kingslayer and maybe kick him, but the Gods have gifted some wits to that clumsy bag of bones and shyness, because the child simply nodded. And blushed, a nice pink.

“Follow me”, sighed Jaime.

***

“A man and a half, you should say.”

The half-man helped him removing his breastplate, looking terribly guilty.

The plump Septa also made a desolate face, while the pretty Septa pestered her feet on the floor in a very unholy way. “Two men in a maiden’s bedchamber, that’s absolutely improper”, she insisted.

“Complain with the King, and shut up”, the kingsguard replied, sitting on the bed to take off his boots. He waved a hand to the skinny child, “I can do it by myself, lad. Just make sure that my letter will be sent with no delays and intromissions, before coming back.”

The boy nodded and escaped from the too crowded room. _Smart brat_ , the kingsgard considered, feigning to give attention to the noise made by the wretched woman in white.

“Be sure that the King will take grave measures, ser. Now climb down her bed”, the Septa buzzed, her grey eyes so judgmental and serious that Jaime was pleasantly surprised when she lost her temper and her good manners, for such an irrelevant, casual incident, like a boot landing on her veiled head.

“Ush, my good sister. You’re not wanting to wake our sleeping beauty, are you?”, he chuckled, lying back on the bed, slowly and awkwardly. His sore muscles were exulting for the soft embrace of the feathered mattress, but the boring Septa wasn’t done, not yet.

“There are other beds”, she protested like a very vexed gnat.

“This one suits me well enough”, Jaime stated, grinning. “Have no fear, Septa Daella or Roella or whatever, your beloved’s thighs are purple and green, from what I can recall, and I’m surely not interested in what she’s got between them. Go nursing the Evenstar, instead of wasting my time. Need to rest.”

He turned his sight from the petrified - and finally mute - woman, to glance at the wench’s face. The more Jaime looked at her, the more he found her ugly, and now she was decisively ridiculous with that lock of hair entrapped in her swollen lips.

“Don’t close the shutters”, he commanded, needing the moonlight to count her damned freckles. At the forty-seventh, he surrendered himself to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Long Night is over :) Hope you enjoyed it


	33. All the promises we made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NED'S POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I promised, Ned, and you know the value of a promise.”
> 
> “I do”, he murmured, his nostrils filled with the scent of blood and withered roses.

KING'S LANDING - THE TOWER OF THE HAND

He sat at the left of the bed, watching the morning invade the room, and play with the copper hidden in Sansa’s hair, or with the half smile curving Arya’s lips, and the time seemed to stop, or maybe it was him who did want this moment never to end - the perfection of their little chests lowering and raising, Sansa’s breaths slow and soft, Arya’s fast and loud, yet with the same enchanting harmony of their entangled arms. 

“Are the children hurt?”, the king asked from the chair beside Ned, after a long while, breaking the spell, but it was Robert’s voice, warm and caring, so it didn’t bother him too much.

“A little cut on their palms, nothing more”, he said, praying softly his thanks to the old Gods, for having be so merciful. “Your Grace, there’s lot of things I need to tell you…”

“Ned, no need to explain. Not you”, Robert affirmed, blunt. “You won’t leave, not for… Oh, Gods, this city is only a boiling stew, hot, deceitful and suffocating. Do you remember, Ned, the fresh summers at the Eyrie?”

He nodded, but it seemed to him that it had been in another life, where Jon Arryn was alive, and Brandon, and Lyanna… His sister lingered in his mind, he had seen her face all through the night, recognizing her kindness in Sansa, her wildness in Arya… _and, somehow, when that tall girl has mounted, swift, and lonely, on her mount…_

“We were brothers, we are brothers in a way that nor Stannis nor Renly can ever be. I pity them both, yet I love them, too”, the king told him, interrupting his daydreams. “Renly has already paid a visit, probably he wanted me to confirm his damned betrothal, and I pretended to be asleep not to see him. But how could I sleep, after this night?”

Robert brought a thick hand on his furrowed brow, as if the king wanted to banish some bad thoughts, and Ned realized there was something the king knew, something bad, and he forgot almost to breathe, his chest pierced by a thousand and one needles, like when Benjen took the black, and Jon, his Jon... 

“I talked with the Evenstar, before he passed out. The old, stubborn, wicked man – oh, he caught me really unaware and I was, maybe, a bit drunk, but I swore Ned, I swore him to keep her daughter safe, and this was after he had told me all the truth. I shouldn’t have promised, I shouldn’t, but she's the only one left of four children he had and now…”, Robert looked at his companion with an intensity which made his eyes shone, free and bright blue, like the banners swirling in the merciless sky above the Maiden’s Tower, the easternmost of the seven towers of Jon Arryn’s seat. “I promised, Ned, and you know the value of a promise.”

“I do”, he murmured, his nostrils filled with the scent of blood and withered roses.

“I swore to keep her safe, and I’ll keep her safe, and very close to me, too. And you will help me with her, because a part of me still desire her to die, or even worse, and the girl did nothing against me, except existing, maybe”, the king told in a breath, diverting his glance from the children asleep, and raising to his feet. Ned followed him, grabbing his arm like he used to do in their childhood, when his friend was beginning to be too unruly, even for the descendant of the Storm Kings. Robert smiled, a sad, regretful smile, “I need you, Ned, now even more, you’re the only one that he’s truly honest with me, the only one I can trust, the only one who can stop me, if necessary.”

 _Honest. If you’d know, my friend, the thing I did, and do, for love_.

“Robert, I don’t know, the place of a Stark is in Winterfell”, he replied, quietly, haunted by vows and memories, old and new.

“There’s already a Stark in Winterfell. Your son is a man grown, and a good one, whilst mine are still too… green. You won’t leave”, the king repeated, and this time it was an order, “I’ll sent Joffrey to Dragonstone, until Stannis will find the iron under all that fucking gold. In the due time, Tommen will travel to Winterfell, I want him to befriend your Bran, if the gods spared him, it’s because they want him to be a great man, he will wake soon, I’m sure of it.”

Ned wasn’t that sure, but he felt so grateful for his friend’s words, that he couldn’t help but wrap his arms on Robert’s wide chest.

“Come on, Ned, no night is long or hard enough for our friendship to end”, he patted on Ned’s back, fondly but almost solemnly, “And my sons will grow in good, strong men, far from this stinking place, whilst my Hand will help me deal with that fucking throne, and with Brienne of Tarth, for a start.”

The Lord of Winterfell flinched back, bewildered. For a moment he had forgot the maid… and the lion, too interested in the maid, for her to be only the heir of an island in the Narrow Sea. _And a girl who has unfortunately seen too much. If she talks..._

Robert almost crushed his Hand's hand between fingers of steel. “Because she’s one of her, Ned. One of them”, he whispered, almost rasped out, and Ned widened his eyes, like a boy seeing for the first time the Wall.


	34. Stolen kisses, stolen words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SANSA'S POV

KING'S LANDING - IN FATHER'S LARGE AND SOFT BED

She didn't need to open her eyes, to know that it was morning and that Arya was still there, in her arms. The rough child smelled sour enough to choke her, but, for a change, it wasn't bothering Sansa, not too much. She could pretend her sister to be perfumed like winter roses, and the thought of Septa Mordane running behind the little horseface to made her have a bath was consoling enough...

 _Don't stab me, please, no more._ She pressed one peck or maybe two into Arya's skin, just above her brow, and she held her breath, waiting for a kick or something else, but the she-wolf only grumbled, a little rivulet of drool running from the corner of her snout and ending exactly above Sansa's soft hair.

She sighed, too weary to listen to what Father and the king were saying, and they were murmuring... she heard just a few words, and queen, and wedding, were among them.

 _Maybe they're talking about me and Joffrey._ _He's so beautiful and, maybe, he will become even more beautiful, and wear a golden armor and roar his love for me so loudly to be heard even at the Wall, and beyond._

_Yet, I don't want to have hands that big and calloused... I'd rather wed an ugly dwarf._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And about dwarves...


	35. The little bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TYRION'S POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summer nights are too long in the south. Need a bit of fresh air...

CASTLE BLACK - A SNOWY YARD, IN A PLACE WHERE YOU CAN FIND ONLY SNOW, AND INTERESTING FELLOWS NAMED SNOW. 

_Damn, one can’t go pissing from the edge of the world in peace_ , sighed Tyrion, and resigned himself to face the cold wind howling outside. The lads training in the snow looked half bemused and half disgusted at the bundle of furs that was waddling towards the Lord Commander, but Jeor Mormont welcomed with a fond smile. _I definitely must remind him a bear cub_ , thought Lord Tywin’s reluctant son. 

“Hope it wasn’t that bad, the message you got from the Rock.”

 _Bad? Awful. Father's alive, and demanding answers._ “My lord father’s in good health, thank you, my lord. He just remembered me to bring his respects to one of your finest men. Ser Endrew, from Tarth.”

“Ah. Tarth. A good man, and a seasoned ranger. It’s such a pity.”

“Is he unfortunately missing along with Benjen Stark?”, Tyrion glanced furtively at the grey-eyed boy, who was showing how to hold properly a sword to a lad with incredible large ears and to another scum with the wit of a pigeon, judging from the amount of perplexity escaping from his open mouth, in large, white clouds. _A clumsy pigeon_ , he corrected himself, as the broad-shouldered guy lost the blade as soon as the guys begun to fight again.

Ser Thorne’s curses covered the lord Commander’s voice, so the big bear was forced to repeat what he had just told to the frozen imp before him. “Ser Endrew serves at Shadow Tower. I’d hoped you could stay longer here. I enjoy your conversation, my lord, but you’ll surely find the Gorge and the abandoned fortresses of Sentinel Stand and Westwatch-by-the-Bridge more interesting than the tedious talking of an old man. Like I told you last time, the Night’s Watch needs men and resources, I had a certain notion to restore those keeps but…”

“I also wish to enjoy our conversations for a little more. Mayhap I should wait a little, rangers often do move, don’t they?”, Tyrion quickly replied, his balls freezing at the only thought to march towards west in that biting cold. “I guess the Night’s Watch will need a lot of gold to start ameliorating his castles. I should write my father.”

“This is such a generous offer. Maybe ser Endrew is supposed to pass soon by Castle Black, I’d control with my steward. In the meanwhile, you should visit maester Aemon.”

“Is he a close friend to ser Endrew?”. That sounded such a stupid question, but Tyrion's ears were about to crack into tiny pieces of ice, so he could waste not an only instant in jokes. Not that he wanted to make any joke about the maester, however, not after what the blind man had said just the night before.

“Here we’re all more than friends, my lord, we’re brothers. But, the maester and ser Endrew are kin, even beyond the black cloak.” Tyrion furrowed his brow and the big bear went on explaining. “Ser Endrew’s grandmother was Aemon’s sister.”

“Is the maester from Tarth, too?” _That may be interesting. Nothing better than an island to hide a treasure._

A cutting, yet warm smile, opened in the thick beard of the Lord Commander, when he answered, “I don’t think that king Maekar’s children were born in Tarth, but you should ask maester Aemon, I suppose.” _That_ was definitively interesting, and for the second time in only two days, Tyrion Lannister found himself pleasantly speechless, and about the same man.

“With your leave, I’m eager to pay that visit”, said the Imp, after a while, and hurried on his torn legs towards the relative comfort of his room. He had to warm himself with a hot cup of porridge and write two words to his lovely Goldiloks, before meeting a dragon, a true dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally Tyrion :)
> 
> Ok, I cheated a bit, this chapter takes place before Brienne's arrival in KL - but Tywin Lannister isn't a sleeping lion, not when the king's brothers are planning something... and he isn't indifferent to Tarth, maybe.


	36. From brother to brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TYRION'S LETTER TO JAIME + JAIME'S ANSWER TO TYRION
> 
> You can skip this chapter, if you want :)  
> It doesn't add anything to the (already inconsistent) plot.

FROM THE END OF THE WORLD TO KING'S LANDING

(BY CROW)

My sweet Goldilocks,

why the hell our lord Father is interested in a certain Maid of Tarth? Is she that beautiful? My balls are at great peril of freezing, so stop laughing and answer immediately.

From the end of the world, your beloved, wicked, half-frozen and always half-man, 

Tyrion-little-bear-Lannister

I forgot a thing.

I suspect a certain bitch will read (even) this letter before than you, dumbest of the dumb. If so, hope you'll choke on your wine, my ~~damned~~ lovely and wise sister of 32 years OLD.

***

FROM KING'S LANDING TO THE END OF THE WORLD

(BY CROW - URGENT - A VERY FAST CROW IS NEEDED)

Damn you Tyrion,

and damn the fucking Maid of the fucking Tarth.

Is Father interested in her? Why doesn’t he come here and tie her to a saddle till the Rock? This way, he can question her personally, and I can get rid of that stupid, stubborn oaf of a wench - of her unbearable Septa and her impossibly prideful Father.

One only day. I saw her this morning, and since then she has been persecuting me. She has punched me the very first time we met and called me kingslayer in my face, when I had only told her that she was a freakish wench - that is merely the TRUTH, can a man being thrown to the dust for having said the truth for once in his life?

You must see her, the Hound with teats - teats so meager you can mistake them for tiny blossoms of rose - but younger than Clegane, no more than seventeen or eighteen years old, and over six feet of legs, muscles, horse teeth and freckles, freckles everywhere.

Too many freckles, you can’t count them. Not that I’ve ever tried to count them, it would be impossible for anyone, since she never stays still like a good wench, no, she has to crush her thick head against every wall she can find, she’s a never-ending trouble, such a pain in my arse that I wonder if she has some Lannister blood in her veins.

She surely has. That could explain why Father...

No, no, no, the wench can’t be a hidden Lannister.

Definitely too ugly, her hair is an enervating tangle, so bright to be almost white, and even her skin is too pale, under the freckles, except when she blushes - and she blushes every ten seconds, you sneeze and she blushes, you clean her wounds and she blushes, you tell her that she owes you a dozen stallions in gold and she blushes - but she doesn’t blush a pretty pink, she takes fire, every inch of her damned long body takes fire, and she scowls, everywhere and anytime, with no wits (and less of all irony), boring and loyal and honorable till a fault. I suspect she likes the fucking Starks, and surely she's as bad liar as Ned-I'm-the-new-Hand-Stark.

Gods save me, it’s really hard to think of something uglier or clumsier. I know it sounds like an exaggeration, but you must see the wench, you must. There are no wenches like her, only her.

She almost got to have me killed twice or thrice, and the night isn't over, yet. By king's command, I'm here to guard at her crooked nose while she sleeps. She's not snoring, not yet, but she's going to snore, I'll bet on it.

She's astonishingly hideous. I grant you, the day some fool will find something beautiful in Brienne the Beauty, hate and love will mate, ice will burn and the Wall will crumble.

Your piss from the edge of the world has taken too long, brother, you’ve surely drowned hundreds of innocent thieves, murderers and rapers in their pretty black cloaks. Tell the Lord Commander not to worry about that, he will have soon fresh scum, 'cause we've cleaned a bit this stinking city. No need to tell it's the wench's fault. 

However, it’s past time you come back and help me dealing with this... tempest. Cersei says that our sleeping beauty is going to wed Renly Baratheon - to die a maiden in his bed like the blind, foolish child she is. Think about it, Brienne loves him. She loves Renly-the-horny-Stag and strongly believes that Loras-disclose-my-petals-Tyrell is only her betrothed’s loyal friend.

I can’t bear such a stupidity, they should send to the Wall any ugly cow such dumb.

This is a valid option, you should come back south, and the wench should go north, so you could meet around the Neck, be jolly good freaks and help a lion-lizard mom to feed her little lion-lizards.

Not missing you and your tricks - Goldilocks is unworthy even of you!

I hope your balls have already frozen, it'd save the family a lot of gold, little wretched ~~shit~~ bear.

Your beloved,

Goldilocks.

I forgot a couple of things.

You were right. Cersei read the letter, she reads all my letters before than me. And she believes me able to set the wench's ship afire. Me. Don't want to think about it, not now. Stop sneering, or I'll tell auntie. 

Myrcella and Tommen miss you, only Gods know why, so move those twisted legs of yours, come back and help me with the wench, before she’ll become Cersei’s sister. Only thinking about it makes me sick again. Fuck.


	37. Drunk on sunlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JAIME'S POV

KING’S LANDING – THE RED KEEP, IN THE WENCH’S CHAMBER (PLEASE, DEAR SEPTA BORELLE, GO AND TELL THE KING, I CAN’T WAIT TO HEAR HIS GRACE'S ROYAL CURSES)

_That wicked monster dressed in white has forgotten to bar both door and shutters,_ Jaime thought, as sunlight spread in the large chamber, then he realized that there was no monsters in sight and that it was the nice Septa who was snoring quietly on a cushioned chair, while the lad was sleeping in a little bed near the door.

 _I lost my bet, but no way for Tyrion to know that the wench doesn’t snore._ It was weird, she was so huge she ought to make some queer noises, and, instead, her breaths were deep and regular, and most of all freakishly quiet, warm and light, almost delicate. _Delicate, nah, there’s nothing of delicate in her, and if her skin is smooth is only because she’s young, really young,_ Jaime decided, already extremely bored by the wench.

He let his eyes linger on her broad face, and noticed gladly that who had cleaned and stitched the ugly cut on her cheekbone had one a good job. _The flesh is raw and red, but not inflamed. The scar won’t be that terrible._ Maybe Gilbert of the Vines intended men to use his gift only for healing stupid wenches, or maybe not, but Jaime’s stomach was still messed up, and he had no intention to drink wine for a while.

_Water, that’s all I demand, clear, fresh and sweet water._

The sun brushed the impudent lock of hair which was still indulging in the soft red of the wench’s lips. It shimmered, glowing white-gold on crimson, like the blade the knight had laid on the coverlet between him and the maid, and it was so annoying, and stupidly reckless, that Jaime couldn’t help but lean and free the sleeping beauty from that brazen, unrequited kiss.

Her eyelashes fluttered, so soaked with sleep, to seem a dragonfly unable to spread her watery wings over a spring of blue pureness.

She scowled, bringing a hand too big to her mouth too big. Her freckles had drowned in a sudden flush, and she looked every inch the foolish, homely wench she was. A very dazed wench, luckily. “Why?”, she managed to murmur, with the hoarse voice of a drowsy, lethargic bear. 

_Because crimson is a good color on you, my lady,_ Jaime wanted to answer, but he laughed instead, his blood singing, his curls dancing, drunk on sunlight.


	38. Sunburst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE MOON MAID'S POV

SOMEWHERE, OVER THE RAINBOW

Heat. Fire.

Her lips were on fire.

She was on fire, but it felt good, even fair. A bit absurd, maybe.

She struggled to lift her eyelids, and blinked at the sudden, blinding sight of the Sun smiling at her, all gold and light, his eyes green and mysterious and sparkling, and that was really absurd, because the Sun can’t have the eyes of a cat, so the Moon Maid decided she was still dreaming and that it was stupid to ask, in a dream, why the Sun smelled of sweat or why he had stolen her first kiss.

Her lips moved to say something, something stubbornly stupid. Her ears heard a laugh.

 _I love the way he laughs_ , she dreamed, and closed her eyes.


	39. A tale for children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE ENVIOUS MAN'S POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Envy, from Latin "invidia" and "invidere" (literally "IN"= into + "VIDERE"= to see), that is regard maliciously, desire, grudge, hate.

CASTLE BLACK – THE MAESTER’S QUARTERS

Chett spat.

Spat on a cloth to clean the floor from a spot which awkwardly reminded him a raven’s shit, but, in his heart, he spat on dragons, and hideous dwarves, too.

Dragons were evil. They had burned down a village near his, sparing nor the Mudd kings' seat, neither the Sept. Then the crazy king obsessed with snakes and fasting had rebuild the Sept and filled it with seven wonderful statues of the Gods, they said. Chett didn’t know, he had never seen Sweetwillow or anything else but his own village and the bog, until he had been sent to the Wall.

He spat again. _Fasting and statues, good only for a foolish King. If I were a king or a lord, I wouldn’t fast, or come here to freeze, I’d rather spend all my time in a bed, with the most beautiful of all women, and highborn, a maiden of royal blood._ Chett could picture her, lying pale at his side, covered only by roses, costly roses, not the wild ones, or tansies, or stupid goldencups.

He feigned to be busy in stocking the fire, tending an ear to all the babbling of the ugly dwarf, that had barely realized Chett was there, as if he was a servant, and not a brother of the Night’s Watch.

Now that great lord, son of a Lion, was twisting his little hands, all excited, and for what?

A tale for children.

A prince peeled like a boiled egg and disguised as a stable boy, a poor knight which taught him to be loyal and humble, then travels, fights, betrayals and madness, till the prince became the king, and the knight wed a princess. A warrior princess, the king’s sister, brave and skilled with the longbow. That was really the most laughable part of the tale.

_Maester Aemon is growing really old, and the mind of old people wanders, sometimes._

Any man or woman in Westeros knew that ser Duncan the Tall was a white cloak, and the white cloaks couldn’t wed or father children. So, all these talks about his only daughter becoming the lady of a beautiful island in the east, well, it sounded like a folly.

_A lord’s folly. Lucky them, who can laugh and joke, while a poor fellow like me has to work hard his day._

Chett spat again, this time on the fire, and the fire mocked him with a burst of sparks, that almost scorched the boils on his face. _Of course. Fire and dragons are the same, bloody thing._

His thin lips turned into a satisfied smile when he heard that even the dragonlords could burn, and they burned, oh, the most of them burned alive, included the king, and the tall knight that hadn’t been that good, after all, in teaching the egg prince not to play with fire.


	40. Too many vows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ARYA'S POV

KING'S LANDING - FATHER'S SOLAR IN THE TOWER OF THE HAND 

“Promise me.”

Arya glanced up at her father and the new lines on his high forehead, then down at Needle. It winked at her.

“I promise, I will stab Sansa no more, in all my life”, she said, and smiled when he went to her for an embrace and mussed her hair. Arya felt a bit guilty, as every time she told lies, but maybe this one was half a lie, it depended, life was a mess, if her sister was going to behave well or if there was going to have no need of blood pacts…

She doubted about it, though. Thrilled by the king’s fucking tourney, Sansa was already trafficking in her room with Jeyne and Septa Mordane, who was particularly restless since midday. Anyone seemed to be restless, and with the tail between the legs, especially Harwyn and Desmond, who had the same red eyes of the Septa, but for other, blatant reasons.

 _I hate stupid drunkards and I hate Septas, they are all so soft and helpless, like the southron Gods they worship_ , Arya mused, climbing down the stairs. Not that faces carved on trees were that attractive for her, but, at least, they were her father’s Gods, and Ned Stark was a good man, a bit too fixated with promises and such other senseless stuff, but a good man, the best man ever.

The Small Hall was before her, now. Arya had only to open the door. For the last time, she wondered if the surprise her father had mentioned involved Brienne. The tall girl had been wounded, but not too seriously, and she looked the kind of person who can’t stay idle in a bed, sleeping for days.

Arya thrusted the door open, and the large room was empty, with benches and tables shoved against the walls, except for a small, bald man who mistook her for a boy.

She liked him at once, she liked even his ridiculous name and she couldn’t help but grin in a very girlish and silly way, when, at the end of the dancing lesson, the master clicked his teeth together. 

She took it for a yes.

Sore and aching, Arya came back to her room, longing for the moment the tall girl would have joined her in a lesson. The fact they had sworn to feign they had never met and agreed about never talking to each other again, was not a big problem, indeed. The essence was that Brienne kept her mouth shut about Mother and Bran, while, about the rest, well, life was complicated enough itself, to be bound by too many vows.


	41. Interested

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JAIME'S POV

KING'S LANDING - THE RED KEEP, STILL TRAPPED IN THE WENCH'S ROOMS

Her two chins trembled and danced when Septa Donyse giggled and she giggled, like a child happy for a new doll, every time a servant knocked to the apartment’s door. In other words, she had been giggling since mid-morning. There were chests of fruits everywhere and the wench’s chamber was so filled with roses that Jaime’s head ached, and even the lad seemed oppressed by their heavy scent.

“Have you ever seen anything so sweet?”, the plump Septa asked the skinny brat, and he turned as red as the blossoms he had in his hand, uncertain where to put the frail vase of YiTish porcelain. “Lady Brienne is so fortunate to have such a fervent and secret admirer.”

Despite of the danger, Jaime burst into a laugh, and the beast unfortunately awaked. The veiled witch left her cave and looked daggers at him, then stared at the roses, then again at him, glaring at the roses again, and the kingsguard felt really afraid for the poor flowers. “Ush, Septa Roelle”, he said before she could open her mouth, “The _lady_ and her noble father need to rest, and recover.”

Only the sudden, yet gentle, knock at the wooden door saved the brave knight from the worst. _Your death, my life_ , Jaime philosophized, glancing at the wench, besieged by an army of colors (except the one who was essential), whilst the white monster recoiled, to pour its fury over a new, innocent housemaid.

“My lady and her _very_ noble father need to rest”, the Septa was almost shouting, “and roses are the worst homage you could choose. Too many, and too much fruit, and wine.”

"Don't you mind, good sister, we'll send someone to free your protected from such dangerous gifts", the innocent housemaid laughed, with Renly’s casualness.

Jaime jerked on his feet and waited the intruder on the bedroom’s threshold, the lad at his side, like the gauntest standard bearer of any time. If the perfumed stag was amazed to see him there, his face didn’t betray him, and, impudent like few, shared a confident look with his favorite pet, before setting his laughing blue eyes on the kingsguard. Tall, well built, with jet-black hair carefully combed, dressed better than most the ladies of the court, always courteous and smiling, the more Jaime glared at him, the more he couldn’t understand what the wench could ever find in the Lord of Storm’s End.

“It seems that a spell had been put on this castle… everybody’s sleeping, the King, his Hand, his new, lovely ward”, he begun, and Jaime snorted, “or, at least, it’s what they say, isn’t it ser Loras? I felt the need to come and have fresh news.”

“The Evenstar has no fever, and he’s strong despite his age, yet he has more than a wound, and his left arm… the Grand Maester did what he could to save it, the rest is in the Mother’s hands”, the Septa broke in, indifferent to whatever the Knight of Flowers could answer, and Jaime respected her firmness, recognizing loyalty underneath the detached tone. “The lady’s far better, and I don’t doubt she’s going to recover soon. It was ser Barristan to rescue her, and help her lord father, along with another knight of the kingsguard.”

_Another? It was mine the cloak wrapped around the wench, Septa Dazelle. Ser Bold came a bit late, when the most of fun was gone, and his cloak served only to make bandages for poor…_

“Ser Arys”, said the Lord of Storm’s End.

_Right. Bandages for Ser Arys. Maybe you’re not that stupid, despite looking like Robert, well, Robert a hundred stones ago._

“We know, good sister. I owe them so much”, Renly added, and the smile on his extremely stupid face was sad, maybe sincerely concerned, too. “Can I see Brienne?”

Jaime’s blood turned into steam in his veins, and he prayed, prayed for the stag to give him only the shadow of an excuse to smash all those pretty white teeth. “ _Lady_ Brienne is sleeping. You can’t see her”, the kingsguard said. “Two men in a maiden’s bedchamber, that’s absolutely improper.” The Septa frowned, but she had the good sense of nodding, vigorously and repeatedly, on her way back to Lord Selwyn’s sickbed.

“Judging from the bulge on your crotch, ser Jaime, you also bear two swords, one is golden, the other… who knows?”, the brown-haired guy teased, biting the bait.

"You'd like to know, ser, wouldn't you?", he grinned. "Sorry, I've grown a bit too old for girls so pretty and young". The green knight flinched and stepped forward, but there was still the annoying stag between them.

“Loras, please, ser Jaime’s cloak is white, so the color of his sword, or swords, doesn’t really matter”, the lion’s smile faded as Renly bowed. “I’m glad to see how well protected is my beloved cousin.”

“Cousin?”, the word escaped hastily from Jaime’s lips, and he realized he had just fallen into an ambush.

“Oh, maybe she’s not exactly a cousin, but she’s my kin, and I care a lot about her, since the time we spent together at Storm’s End.”

Behind his shoulder, Septa Donyse made out one of those queer sighs that maidens do to bother knights during the jousts, and the young stag took advantage of Jaime’s distraction to move, quick and graceful like a dancer, and wrap the kingsguard in his perfumed, yet muscled arms.

“Till now, Lannister, I wasn’t sure you did know about _us_ ”, Renly whispered into his ear. “It was meant to be a secret, at least for a while, one of the Evenstar’s bizarreness, I thought. I was wrong. I ought to have known that Lord Tywin could be interested in Lord Selwyn’s daughter, but that he was _that much interested_ … as you proved, last night.” The black-haired youth stepped back before going on speaking, loud enough to be heard even at the Rock. “So, I thank you, ser Jaime. Present my regards to your Lord Father, hoping he will honor me and my betrothed of his presence, when Brienne will finally become Lady Baratheon. Soon, very soon it will be me the only man allowed to enter in her bedchamber, till then… take care, your face is so pale and tight that it reminds me of my brother Stannis. You must drink or eat something. Why don't you taste a peach?”


	42. Sweet like a peach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SER ARYS' POV

KING'S LANDING - THE WHITE SWORD TOWER

“A maid, there was a maiden...”

“A fair maiden, like in a song?”

 _It was a song,_ he'd wanted to reply.

“Sorry, I met only a wench, or a lady maybe, I'm not sure. Ugly enough to awake the dead ones.”

 _Then it wasn't her._ Someone helped him drinking something thick and sweet, and ser Arys came back to his dreams.

***

The light filtered through the half-disclosed shutters, hitting the bed near his, and the young man's hair seemed burning, red and gold. It took the knight a while to recognize his room, in the White Sword Tower, and another while to recognize the freckled youth and the bearded man snoring on the carpet.

“Welcome back, ser”, whispered the red-haired boy, bringing his index finger to his lips. “No need to awake Porther, or he will restart with all his tales of queens and wildings. Gods, he's a good man, for a northman, and a nice nurse, when he doesn't steal our wine and our fruits.”

“Our?”, asked ser Arys, furrowing his brow.

“Oh. I was almost forgetting that Porther isn't the only exiled here”, the youth smiled slyly. “I'm Anguy, don't ask me why I'm in your room, ser, it seems the northman mistook me for a friend of yours, but he's not that reliable. No wonder the Hand requires no more his precious services.”

All this talk made the knight's head pounding, and he wanted only to close his eyes, but first he needed to know.

“There was a maiden...”, he begun, trying to brace on his elbows, but somehow his body was still sleeping.

“... with flowers in her hair”, Anguy chuckled, and the juice of an orange run down his chin, “I apologize, ser, but your maiden and Porther's queen are really turning me crazy.”

There was a knock, and the door opened before ser Arys could reply to the red-haired scum or to the knock itself. The first knight carried a basket so filled with peaches that they risked to fall down at every step, while the second was taller and had a flagon of wine for each hand, and a little monkey on his shoulder.

“Glad to see you're awake, ser Arys. The Lord Commander will be very pleased”, said the shorter man and the kingsguard smiled back to him, grateful for his words. The stranger knight had a warm smile, and a honest scar on his plain face. Even his accent was honest, the nice accent of a marcher, the western marches belonging to the Reach. “I'm ser Hyle Hunt, of Lord Tarly's household”, confirmed the good youth, “and this one is ser Mark Mullendore, Lord Martyn's second son.”

The knight of butterflies nodded, beginning to pour the wine in some cups. “This is Arbor Gold, ideal to celebrate this moment, ser.”

“Best before the northman awakes, my good friends”, added ser Hyle, laughing, “Hope you don't mind if we consider you like a friend, ser, we're nothing compared to a sworn brother of the kingsguard which covered himself with glory, but we climbed the winding stairs of this Tower thrice today, and there's other stuff we've still to bring... we're beginning to feel almost at home, here.”

Before the white cloak could thank the two knights for their courtesy, Anguy broke in, “It would be very kind from you, ser, to share with me the wine the lady has sent to ser Arys and to _me._ After all, she owes me ten thousand dragons.”

“As if you really could win the archery contest”, Ser Mark snorted and his white-and-black monkey made a funny grimace, but ser Hyle just widened his grin and brought a cup to the other marcher, coming from the wrong marches. _A stormlander, and a commoner, for sure, even if not that boor, nor stupid._

“The lady?”, managed finally to ask the kingsguard, with a queer hope in his chest.

“The lady Brienne, the Evenstar's daughter”, explained the knight from Uplands.

“The strangest lady ever”, laughed the red-haired guy. “Don't scowl at me, ser, it was her the first one to say she was no lady.”

If he could, ser Arys would have pulverized that foxy smile, but he couldn't. One of his arm was bounded to his chest, his chest was also heavily bandaged and he felt weak like a sucking child.

“She's _peculiar_ , no doubt about it. Maybe it's because she comes from a small island”, commented ser Hyle conciliatory, bringing a cup to the kingsguard's lips, and helping him to peck at a peach. 

The wine filled ser Arys' aching body with a pleasant drowsiness, and the rose-colored fruit was so sweet and soft, like a maiden's skin. _It's so good to be still alive_ , thought the knight, and for the first time he realized that he was out of danger, and that he was still whole, after all.

“Small, Tarth?”, protested Anguy, struggling to settle his right arm. Judging from the bandage and the splint, it was broken, and the youth's calf wore white stripes of linen instead of a stoking, but, about the rest, the boy seemed quite well. “The Sapphire Island is larger than the Arbor and thrice more beautiful.”

“Not half rich as the Arbor, though”, commented ser Mark, smirking.

“Never been so south”, admitted Anguy. “Yet Tarth is Tarth, it's known, and the Evenstar is wealth enough, don't you mind.”

“To compare with Lord Redwyne?”, insisted the knight of butterflies, giving a slice of an orange to his monkey.

“To compare with the Sea Snake”, boasted the man from the eastern marches. “When his daughter was promised to Lord Caron's younger brother, they talked of a dowry worthy a kingdom. It seems the Evenstar collected treasures traveling in the east, where he also met his lady wife.”

The two knights shared a queer look and kept questioning the stormlander. _They're all so young, they're just twenty years old, more or less. They might believe to any tale,_ considered ser Arys, closing his eyes. _They might even believe that a maiden with such innocent eyes has punched the kingslayer. Oh, the last thing is true, indeed_ , he recalled, before yield to the softness of the pillow and the comfort of oranges and peaches' smell.


	43. (Un)comfortably numb

KING'S LANDING - HER ROOM IN THE RED KEEP (PROBABLY)

There was an island, full of butterflies, where lived a giant who was dusky and kind, and the sun was already arrogant and in love with the moon, and the moon was in love too, but she was too shy and stubborn, and hid in the night. The giant laughed, and the earth shared his mirth, but asked him to help the lovers, because they were so sweet, and maybe a bit ridiculous, too. So the giant made the sun stop, only for a day, till the moon stumbled in him, and he stole a kiss, and she frowned at him, and they wed. Such a nice wedding, a star got so drunk that she fell on the earth, losing her bright, white crown, they say, but the sea was blue, a sapphire blue, and gentle, so she decide to stay for a while. Maybe she's still there, who knows.

Her father told her that tale once he had come back from a very long travel, and this time he had brought trunks full with shimmering silks and a dark-skinned lady, who was so lovely that Brienne cried when the woman decided to leave for Naath. Still drowsy with sleep, the maid wondered why this was the first thing, and maybe the only thing she was able to recall.

It was all foggy, and confusing.

The lad's name was Podrick, she had laboriously understood that part of his stammering speech, then he had added that he was her protector and this sounded a bit hazarded, but Septa Roelle's plump sister had nodded, smiling and yawning. Brienne yawned, too, and tried to stretch and brace on her elbows, because she needed to go to her father, but her body was a shapeless sack of stones, heavy and disobedient, and she keeled again on the pillow, with an unpleasant grunt.

“Oh, my lady, don't you worry”, said Donyse, her name was Donyse and she was sweet as a honey cake.“Your lord father is in good hands, and even you... the Queen's own brother guards you, and look, look all around you.”

She opened her eyes again, and not without cost, not ready to face the invasion of colors, and their harming perfume.

 _A Lannister always pays his debt_ , Brienne realized, and groaned, plunging her homely face in the large, feathered pillow. It smelled of sweat and something else she couldn't recognize, but it was good, oddly good and familiar.

She closed her eyes, and hoped to dream of Gal, this time.


	44. Shining knights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CERSEI'S POV

KING'S LANDING - THE QUEEN'S SOLAR

Lamprey pies and roast suckling pigs were fairly too much for the such of Lady Tanda and her second or third cousin, Lord Gyles. No matter they were the heads of two of the most important Houses of the Crownlands, they were old, unforgivably old, and boring like only the decrepit ones can be.

Tilting graciously her golden head, the Queen feigned attention at the praises the Lord of Rosby was wheezing about the food, between a coughing fit and another, but the Imp was hammering in her head, like a tiny wicked smith, his words melting with all her other concerns.

 _'Why the hell our lord Father is interested in a certain Maid of Tarth?_ '', Tyrion had written, as if the reason wasn’t that plain, and evident, as the large hips of that ugly cow. Yet the wretched dwarf was cunning, sometimes, and Cersei glanced again at the entrance, but there was no trace of her gallant cousin, nor of the books that the Grand Maester had promised to search for her.

_Lanceless is a useless idiot, I’m surrounded by idiots and idles. Like Senelle, where is she gone?_

The Queen’s new housemaid had practically disappeared since the morning, and she just had to deliver a purse in Kettleblack’s hands. Probably the blond girl was entertaining the man, a vapid whore with a pretty body was exactly what scum like Kettleblack deserved, and considered as a reward for being able of belching and spitting, but, after all, Senelle should be only pleased to be in the strong arms of a knight. All the three Kettleblack brothers were tall, strong built, and ser Osmund was the tallest. _And the most ambitious, no wonder he prefers to serve me instead of that lickspittle of Littlefinger._ _A slow and late servant must be always castigated, however_ , Cersei decided.

It was clear that Lollys needed someone to clean her when she got food on herself, like now. The fat, dull maiden looked at her with trusting eyes, and the Queen turned again to Lady Tanda, masking her revulsion.

“Isn’t she pretty, today, my little daughter, in her new dress?”, said the foolish Lady of Stokeworth and her blind cousin nodded, before half chocking on a greasy piece of pork, which was clearly more attractive than the placid sow in silk and green samite seated beside him. “I wonder when a knight in a shining armor will come and knock at my door, to ask for her innocent hand”, added the wrinkled lady.

 _When the sun will set at east_ , mused Cersei, but she replied, instead, pretending to be unknowing, “A shining armor?”

“Oh, Lord Gyles, please, tell the Queen what you heard while passing through the city on your gorgeous litter.”

“It’s just a tale, Your Grace, rumors…”

“It’s more than this, lord Gyles, it’s a song!”, protested lady Tanda, making a sound that resembled to a chuckle, and Cersei smiled her most inviting smile, foretasting her victory on the hateful Stark and his unruly daughters. 

“It seems there was a damsel in distress, and a knight saved her, like in a song”, admitted Lord Rosby, and without coughing. _That_ was even less believable than a song.

“A beautiful maiden? Maybe more than one”, laughed the Queen.

“Your Grace, it’s not a tale, I can ensure you about that. I think I even know the name of the maiden”, lady Tanda leaned on the table with a spark in her eyes, “It’s the lady Brienne, the Evenstar’s daughter. A thousand roses has been sent to the room where she’s lying, still asleep. Don’t mock me, Your Grace, but they say she’s enchanted.”

“What?”, her voice came out a bit strangled, and Myrcella raised a brow, from the myrish carpet where she was quietly playing with Tommen.

“Yes, enchanted. A red-haired stranger was singing an endless, monotone song under her window, and then she was running outside of the Red Keep…”

“Riding. On a blood bay”, corrected Lord Gyles.

“Running, or riding, the fact is that she was wearing only a candid shift, her eyes wide, but she was mute and pale, as if she was having a waking dream, or if the stranger had put a spell on her”, lady Tanda smiled, looking like Lollys’ aged and withered version.

“Lord Stark, his children…”, Cersei tried to intervene but the old woman was too absorbed in her mistaking everything.

“Children? No children were seen, and the Hand came only later, with the gold cloaks, to escort home the lady and her valiant rescuer. Maybe you can guess who that knight is”, the old woman giggled. Giggled.

“A white cloak, maybe?”, suggested the Queen, holding her breath. The right men she had payed must have made some confusion, but, in the end, the essential was that a lion would shine over wolves and stags.

“Oh, ser Barristan and the poor one who was wounded, the young one…”

“Ser Arys, kof, kof.”

“Yes, the poor, brave ser Arys. They fought well, but their armors are white. Lord Gyles, please, the Queen is yearning to know what they say in the Street of Steel.” _The Queen is yearning to get rid of you and your stench of old bones and stupidity._

“Master Tobho Mott had recently made an armor, kof, all enameled with beaten gold”, explained quietly the wretched man, “till the antlers.”

“Antlers?”, Cersei hid her stunned face behind the silver cup she was bringing to her exquisite mouth.

“Golden antlers, and golden roses, and red, pink, violet, every rose he could find… Isn’t Lord Renly the shining knight every pure maiden deserves?”, lady Tanda concluded, glancing fondly to her daughter.

 _If she’s a lackwit like your Lollys maybe_ , though the Queen, reaching again for the cup. Her throat was raw and the red dornish was strong, but good.

“Then let’s hope the enchanted Maid of Tarth will wake soon”, she said, and a part of her wished the ugly cow would never wake up from her drugged sleep.

 _It would be easier for the that shambling freak, for she’ll never become the Lady of Storm’s End, not if Father is interested in her. Nor she’ll ever become the Lady of Casterly Rock to breed some hideous giants and steal my birthright, not if I'm interested in her._ Cersei smiled, the white and deadly smile of a lioness, and Tommen flinched, giving up the idea of pleading another small honey cake and coming back to his sister's dolls. _Dolls._ Sometimes she wondered if the plump and meek child was really Jaime's seed. Joffrey surely was, even if Robert had had her, before sneaking in his Estermont cousin's bed. Her firstborn son was golden and beautiful, taller than Jaime had been as a boy, he might grown tall like Ro... _He's surely Jaime's. A warrior, like his father, his golden father. Because there's only a shining knight,_ _and he serves the only true Queen of Westeros._


	45. No roses without thorns

THE RED KEEP - THE ROOMS ASSIGNED TO THE EVENSTAR

Littlefinger was right, the Kingslayer was nowhere to be seen. Ned hated himself for having asked something to that whoremonger, but he had to know. He had to talk with her, and be sure that the girl would keep the secret.

 _The girl._ His mind refused to think at her in another way, even if she was a woman grown, decisively grown, and a lady. _More than a lady_ , Ned considered with a shiver, haunted by the crimson of the shrouds covering the little bodies of a princess whose face was too pale, and of a king who had no more a face.

Inside, he sighed, desiring to have the same obstinate trust in pacts of a nine-years-old, and, outside, he forced his lips to curve in a sort of smile.

“Oh”, said a kind Septa, looking at him with the shallow bliss of a twelve-years old, “So, you’re not another envoy of the King’s brother.”

“No. I’m just King Robert’s Hand”, he repeated, stiffly, and the short woman moved herself aside, not ungracefully, placing the heavy chest of oranges and lemons she was bearing on a carved table, already too full of other chests.

Having had no time to rest, Ned was tired and eager to see the girl, and the oppressive smell of fruit and flowers was worsening the throbbing in his head. The last thing he needed was a child of an age with Sansa, but skinny like Arya, to be on his damned way.

“Th-th-th-thou can’t pass, my l-lord”, stammered the boy, his plain shirt embroidered with big yellow coins, a poor imitation of Lannister gold.

 _Protect the innocent. This one doesn’t look that innocent, though._ With no hesitation, Ned shoved the boy aside and entered the girl’s bedroom. She was sleeping, in a bed which was big, but looked almost small for her. Sweat drops stuck her pale hair to her forehead, a very uncommon crown, but not so strange, considering the heat in the lavish chamber, and all those roses.

 _Too warm. Too many flowers._ The northman felt dizzy, and scarcely noticed the boy rushing at him, maybe trying to stop him.

Ned opened his arms, instead of fighting, and they fell together, bringing down with them a lovely vase of blue-and-white porcelain. _Red petals, not blue, this time_ , and Lyanna smiled, welcoming him in a world where young girls had nothing to fear, not even a rose’s thorns. 


	46. Black moons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JAIME'S POV

KING’S LANDING – THE RED KEEP, THE GRAND MAESTER’S QUARTERS

The serving girl send him an anxious look as he strode towards Pycelle’s solar, his sword rattling in its scabbard. “My lord”, she said, slender and, more or less, the same age as the wench. “Shall I announce you?”

“I’ll announce myself”, he smiled.

The Grand Maester wasn't alone. Long curls of gold danced in the room, too filled with dusty stuff to be comfortable, and Lancel looked as guilty and pretty as a maiden caught in one of those situations that end only with a wedding or a slaughter.

 _Such a pity maesters can't wed_ , mused Jaime, reaching for his beloved cousin and foretasting the fun.

“Coz, I'm so disappointed by you.”

Behind the huge pile of books posed on the table, the lad went pale, and then flushed, but it was far from the healthy, chaotic blush of the wench, who was still sleeping and sleeping, not deigning herself to make the minimum snore - only to annoy Jaime, of course. She was such a cheater that he had no time to waste, being unfortunately obliged to come back to Her Grace the Queen of Scorn, before she could find the way of harm herself even while dreaming… Not that would have bothered him, if the wench fell from the bed and broke her nose again, but the king might object that he had left her alone, if not for two septas and a skinny protector... well, very skinny, but with so good intentions.

“I've always thought you were eager to become a knight, Lancel”, he said, easing too early the squire's agony, “and not a bookish rat, like my dear departed brother.”

The boy gaped and that ludicrous peach fuzz on his upper lip trembled.

“Has anything bad occurred to lord Tyrion?”, asked the Grand Maester, his eyes hypocritically wide.

“I had no letters from him, since he left for Castle Black. My brother is always so... dutiful, especially when no whores may distract him. I wonder if he's fallen from the Wall, or he has been eaten by some snarks.”

“Crows can get lost, sometimes. I'm sure your brother is well, ser”, said the wretched Maester, still trying to hide the most part of the books that laid on the dark surface of the large table he used as his desk. Smiling, Jaime opened one scroll, casually. It was a map of the Narrow Sea, containing a detailed representation of a certain island, which wasn't that small, maybe.

“Please be careful with that map, ser, it's rare and frail, the only representation of the position of the mountain camp where prince Aemon was ambushed by the Myrish scout…”

“… who killed him with a crossbow. A coward’s weapon, for what was the very beginning of the Dance of Dragon, they say.” Or, better, Tyrion had said, once, but Jaime trusted more his brother's wits, than all the chains forged in Oldtown.

“Yes, it's true, in a way...It was the decision to prefer Aemon’s brother to his own daughter that started...”

“Interesting. It's all so interesting, here. This one is about all the eastern islands, this other one... again pirates, sea travels, Narrow Sea, Shivering Sea, oh, can you guess? The Shipbreaker Bay and its blessed Straits. Here's a book with finally some good fights in the Stepstones, far and recent ones, there's even a nice drawing representing my grandfather, ser Jason... Lord Tywin fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings, was uncle Kevan with him, Lancel?"

The squire opened and closed his mouth like a fish on a market stall. 

"Probably nuncle was there, I'm not sure, they were both very young. Father had just been knighted. Oh, here you are scrolls and parchments about the Storm Kings, never forget the Storm Kings and their tall descendants. Towers? Yes, towers and other wonders…. Oh, look, coz, legends from Tarth. Already missing your wetnurse and her tales? And what's that? I've never seen a book that thin.”

“Because it's a diary, written by the captain of a ship...”, began the old measter, stroking nervously his beard.

“... who was from Tarth. I'm decisively a lucky man. Lancel, be a kind child and bring all these books to the quarter assigned to the Evenstar.”

“I can't, the Queen is waiting for them”, bleated the stupid squire of an even more stupid king.

“My sister will wait a little more, then.”

“But she's the Queen...”

“She often wears a crown, she expects to be obeyed by everyone, yes, maybe you're right, Lancel. You're more cunning than I was at your age, probably. Now that we've established Cersei is the Queen, should we remember who I am?”

 _It's so easy, it's always so damn' easy._ The Kingslayer looked at the lad swallowing, before disappearing into the shadowed corridor. No doubt Jaime would have something to read, now, in the tedious hours he was forced to spend with the less talkative and attractive wench of all Westeros. One of the tomes was so old and heavy that it could turn out very useful, indeed. No one would complain if _The Lineage and Histories of the Great Fucking Houses of the Seven Kingdoms With Useless and Boring Descriptions of Too Many Dead People_ ended its days in such a glorious way, like protecting a knight of the kingsguard against a monster dressed like a Septa.

The lion lingered a while, drumming his fingers on the armrest of the tall chair he had chosen, then tilted his head towards the Grand Maester, and asked the very simple question that was spinning and swirling in his mind, since Renly's visit. “So, now that we're alone, alone and far from any other”, he smiled one of his best reassuring smiles, “why the hell my Lord Father might be interested in the Maid of Tarth?”

***

“I swear it, delivering the letter to the Queen was just a mistake, and you have to believe me, I know no more than what I've just told you”, concluded that rat of Pycelle, still trembling a bit. “I can make researches, though, I've already started... for your Father, not for the Queen.”

 _He's not lying_ , decided Jaime, pensive. He tucked away the few notions for later, showing no emotions. “Hope you will inform me about the progress of your studies, Grand Maester.”

“Obviously the Warden of the East will be the very first person to know, the very first. And the only one.”

“Good. We can go, now. Time for you to visit the Evenstar.”

“Hopefully I shall make some questions to the lady, ser?”

“We'll see”, the knight answered, still wondering if he really wanted that toad to pose his pale, rheumy eyes on the wench. “If she's not still asleep.”

The Grand Maester froze. “Still asleep? It can't be, the maid took just a few sips of wine mixed with the milk of the poppy...”

Jaime grasped the old man's arm and dragged him out of his chambers, down the stairs, cursing the old man for slowing his pace, ignoring the noises and claims of innocence coming from the toad. He left his wrinkled arm only before _that_ door. Lancel had left it opened, and now he was lying on a mattress of books and papers, just a few steps from the entrance. Septa Donyse was not far, while the other Septa was on her kneels, as if she was praying, her head and shoulder leaned against the wooden jamb, her hand still on the pommel of the door taking to Lord Selwyn's bedroom. The lad wasn't where he was supposed to be, and the perfume, the perfume was so sweet and so strong.

The lion's roar covered the chocked sound made by Pycelle, who had covered his mouth and nose with his spotted hands, reaching quickly for the outside.

Jaime didn't need to breath. He had stopped breathing the very instant he rushed into Brienne's chamber, and saw the wolf embraced to the skinny child, into a puddle of water and red petals, and saw her, pale, too pale, the others weren't that pale... A cracking sound came from under his boots, as he devoured the space between them, and must she be that fucking heavy, obviously she must - it was all so fast, and slow, in the same time, and his lungs were shouting, his muscles burning, but he didn't care, he didn't, and shoved away a short, scarred man and his bigger companions, and ran, ran until he was far from that room, past the antechamber, past the corridor and the stairs... he was in a yard, that yard in which they had danced, the air filling painfully his lungs, dissipating the shadows in Jaime's eyes.

Her hair had the color of a peach, white, gold and rose. “Open your eyes, you, freakish wench. Stupid, stubborn, oaf of a wench. You won’t get away with such a childish trick. You owe me a purse of dragons, and a dagger, and a brooch worth half your fucking island”, Jaime growled, his teeth grinding. “And my horse? Where have you hidden my horse?”

A huge man unloaded the body of Lancel on the cobbles, as if he would have unloaded a sack of turnips form a cart, and the squire moaned, he did moan, and began moving - but the wench was obviously too pigheaded to close her hand into a fist or say some gentle insults. Jaime darted his eyes looking for a maester, but saw only bricks tinged of blood by the sunset, and a decrepit man, almost toothless, with a chain too heavy for his hunched shoulders. 

“Ser, please”, said one. It was the short man, with his ugly scar and his southron accent. The marcher gingerly laid the lad down, just abreast of the wench, and the lad was so tiny compared to her. A dozen of quips came into Jaime’s mind, ready to make her redden as soon as she would open her damned eyes.

“Let her, let the Grand Maester help the lady, please”, insisted the stranger.

 _Never. Can’t you see? She’s awaking_ , Jaime was on the verge to answer to the white-faced man, as her eyelids hinted at lifting.

Two black moons floated in pools of a blue so dark to seem almost purple. And Jaime screamed.


	47. Nough but a stupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BRIENNE'S POV

EVENFALL HALL, MAYBE

“You’re nought but a stupid child!”

She was. She was a child, and she was stupid, really, really stupid. Brienne glanced down at her dress, at his shirt, at the stars’ map he had been working on all the last week. Her eyes filled with tears, and the large - irremediably large - ink spot blurred into a huge, black crow.

She knew she was only a stupid one, and ugly, and clumsy. But he had never called her that way. Not Galladon. The snot was dripping from her nose, even if she was sniffing with all her force.

“Brie.”

“Brie. Look at me.”

“Brienne. I’m sorry. You’re not stupid. I-I was angry, but not with you, not truly.”

She looked at him. His handsome face was shadowed by pain, true pain, a pain she would have proven gladly, instead of the nothing that had dug a hole in her chest. 

“Father found you again in Mother’s room”, she blurted and it wasn’t a question, but Gal nodded, his hand closing into a fist.

“He threatened to wall up the door.”

“He can’t do it, he can’t”, she said, knowing how Galladon loved to be among Mother’s things, to touch them, from time to time. He had told her that Mother’s clothes had still her smell, and Brienne’s nostrils had filled with the salt of the sea and the wood of a good ship, and it was weird, but she had believed him nonetheless. He was eight, and he was always good with her. Once he had broken a finger while helping her in climbing a wall, and he had cried, just a bit. Then he had laughed, to make her laugh with him, because she was afraid and he was her perfect knight. 

“He can, if he wants. But it’s not fair, the world is not fair.”

Brienne dropped her eyes to his feet, feeling guilty. In a fair world, Gal would have still his mother, not a useless, annoying little sister that ruined all his works and that at four was tall like the cook’s boy, who was seven.

“He wants us to forget her, but I won’t, and you neither. What was her name?”

"Alyssa", she whispered, biting her lower lip.

“Yes, Brie, but... only Alyssa? It's like come-into-my-castle, you're Brienne of House...

"Tarth."

"House Tarth and House... Do you remember, Brie? Do you?"

She ran her eyes around the room, too afraid to talk. Father had prohibited them to tell it loudly, Father never talked about it, and, deep down, Brienne believed she would have known nothing of it, if not for Galladon. He was her perfect knight, so brave, and skilled with his wooden sword, even if he didn’t care to be a knight - he wanted to sail and follow the sun, east, east, east, and then maybe settle in the west.

“I do”, she said, finally, stealing some of his courage. He grinned and took her in his arms. He was so beautiful when he smiled, even more beautiful than Father, and Father was really handsome, tall and strong and fierce. “How did she look, Gal?”, she asked him, for the seventy-seventh times.

He hunched his shoulders. “I don’t recall her well… her face, sometimes I can still see it, then it all fades. But I recall her voice, she sang every day, and she was sweet, she used to stroke my hair…” Brienne loved when he talked her of Mother. It was like to have a mother, for a while, and Gal smelled of Gal, simply good, like a breeze. They stayed there, wrapped in a hug, till someone called her loudly. 

“Remember her, Brie”, he concluded.

She glanced down at her sweated palms, and said nothing. She was trying to imagine Mother, but it wasn’t easy. Not for her thick head.

“There a thing I never told you, little sis. Well, I told you, when you were two, but you giggled and ran to Father, and Father got angry..."

She looked up warily, furrowing her brows. Galladon has the very serious expression of a very wise big brother telling very important things, and her heart squeaked like a squirrel.

"Yours are bigger, but, yes, Brienne, you have her eyes.”

“You said she was beautiful”, she replied, stunned. She had always thought Mother must have Galladon’s glance.

“She was, Brienne", he paused, playing with one of his flaming curls. "Tomorrow I’ll bring you to the waterfalls, and the enchanted cave you like so much, if you do smile and keep the secret”, he murmured like a conspirator, taking her hand. His eyes were laughing, now, his caring eyes of the deepest shade of purple.

She smiled at her brother, with all her freckles, even if it was just a dream. Or a memory. It wasn't easy to understand the difference, and she was nought but a stupid wench.

Wench?

She was no wench - surely nobody’s wench.


	48. Facing the faceless man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SANSA'S POV

KING'S LANDING - INSIDE THE SAFE WALLS OF THE RED KEEP 

Bran had finally woken.

Father woke, too, the travel and that long night had tired him so much that he had been sleeping for almost two days, but, as soon as he had learned of Bran, he took Arya and her in the godswood, ignoring Jory and Alyn's pleas, and the king who wanted him immediately at his side. The king was the king, but the Gods came before anyone, Septa Mordane explained them, wrinkling her nose, like she did any time she recalled there were people who preferred trees to statues.

Sansa was too happy to worry about these matters, her heart was filled with songs, and she had such a sweet voice, after all, so she let it resound under the starry sky, until she fall asleep in the grass, who was soft and blessedly cool - and then again the day after, in the corridors, in the hall, until Arya shouted her to go outside because she was waiting for her dancing maester.

"Dancing lessons for my sister. This city is full of surprises, indeed", she commented and Jeyne chuckled, but they were both older and wiser than Arya, so they left, gladly. There were gardens in the Red Keep, and she wanted to pick up some flowers, and think to her last dream. Bran had been there, with Lady at his feet, while the other direwolves ran in the yard, and he talked, and laughed, with a child of the same age, more or less, but who was taller, tall like Jon, at least. Freckled, but beautiful, and when Lady licked his hands, Sansa had the certainty the unknown boy was the noblest of all boys, because his eyes were the eyes of old kings.

The music died suddenly on her lips.

“Oh, that's a pity, I liked that song”, sneered the Hound. Swallowing, the Hand's daughter tried not to stare at his dreadful face, nor to avoid completely his glare. She brought the little bunch of flowers to her nose, searching for Joffrey, but he wasn't with his dog, and Jeyne was underneath a apple tree, too busy in chatting with Alyn and another girl to remember her. She was alone, and terrified, no matter if she was a Stark of Winterfell and a Queen-to-be.

“Lost your voice, little bird?”

 _Yes._ “No, ser.”

He snorted, disappointed, and his jaw tightened, revealing more white than any lady might stand. _Or any knight, probably._

“No, my good prince's loyal guard”, she corrected herself, and he smiled, if that ruin on his burned face could be considered a smile. Unbidden, Sansa's thoughts went to the lady Brienne, and she wondered if she would have bear a scar on her face, even if not that hideous.

“So, it seems the Hand has woken. Anyone has, but for one person.”

“She's only sleeping”, Sansa broke in, and her voice was a bit strained.

“Is she?”, he said, and she froze. “You might be right, little bird, in a certain way. She was sleeping, before your Lord father stepped in her room. Or before Lord Renly sent her all those fucking roses.”

“Ser Jaime”, she tried to suggest, “the Queen's brother...”

“... has slain his king, and he might kill even little she-wolves, if he'd like it. A strange sort of knight, isn't it?”, he laughed, and it was such a sad laugh. “Yet I saw him, how fast he ran, to save that ugly beast. Not for the first time, if you can believe to those shy maids marching in gold cloaks, and there was always an old wolf involved. The king may wonder why.”

 _This has nothing to do with Bran or Winterfell, and Father isn't old. Not too old, at least, to get rid of you,_ Sansa pondered, but the man before her was so scary and strong, even for a Stark of Winterfell. “The roses, maybe the lady has been stung...”

“By a rose? Oh, Gods, for sure, she's enchanted. She just need to be kissed by her true love to wake up.” A lot of people was staring at them, now, keeping a certain distance, though, and they were wise. The Hound was shaken by laughs, but, if possible, he looked even more dangerous than usual. “This is really a good song, little bird, you were born to be queen. Don't you mind too much, too many roses, too many lordly heads and poor ser Ilyn is only one.”

Sansa couldn't help but flinched, recalling the pale, deepset eyes of the gaunt, grim man and the stained leather hilt of his enormous blade, that spoke of age and large use.

“The King's Hand, the King's brother, the Queen's brother...”, Clegane was almost talking to himself, now. He shrugged. “They'll put the blame on someone insignificant. There was a squire, too, along with two septas. I'll bet on the squire. No one will miss a squire, or a ugly girl coming from an island. Her father will survive, and console himself with a new young wife.”

“NO!”, she shouted, and even the flowers glanced up at her bewildered. “She's sleeping, only sleeping”, the Hand's daughter concluded, recomposed and dignified, and left, curtseying with the courtesy and the grace only a noble lady can have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally Sandor :)


	49. Beware of cats (and little lion cubs)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ARYA'S POV

THE RED KEEP - WHEREVER YOU WILL GO, WRETCHED CAT

She had to come so south to find out that there were people even stupider than Sansa. She tried to ignore them and concentrate on the big cat with a torn ear. It was nearly impossible. The prince had such a high, puerile voice. Enervating.

“Do you think that she likes lilacs? We can pick some of them, and some forget-me-not too, she’ll be glad to see flowers when she’ll awake.”

“Maybe it’s better if we don’t, Tommen.” 

“Why, Myrci?”

“Because the roses were poisoned, anybody knows it, and you’re such a childish pup to believe that she’s going to awake soon”, Arya yelled, jumping out the bush in which she was hiding. Two damned red cloaks stepped towards her, and the wicked black fur-ball climbed on a pear tree, looking at her with the smug expression of an old, knowing feline.

“We’re children,” Myrcella declared haughtily, “We’re supposed to be childish. Besides, no one can poison a rose, it was a vase that has been filled with Sweetsleep instead of water. An error, my lady.”

 _An error, sure. It sounds even more ridiculous than mistaking me for a lady_. The Lannister guards shared a puzzled look, and Arya chewed her lips. _Maybe they have no recognized me, not yet._ The thought was comfortable enough to seem a lie, and she was sick of lies and of whining children. Deep down, guilt creeped in her chest, like a snake with eyes of the same green of that stupid prince’s eyes, who ought to know better than plunge his plump face on his sister’s gown and weep.

“She’s sleeping, just sleeping, so nuncle Renly said”, he was sobbing.

“If your _nuncle_ really believes she’s only asleep, why doesn’t he throw a basin of water at her face?”, Arya insisted. _With Sansa it works_ , she recalled, and the cat seemed to agree, his golden eyes sparkling with mirth and contempt, at the same time.

“Mayhap he hasn’t thought about it”, the child babbled, raising again his chin. He was beaming, now, as if he had found the end of the rainbow. “We should tell nuncle, Myrci. Please.”

“We should, Tommen”, the princess sighed, and turned towards her. “With your leave, lady Arya”, Mycella said, loud enough to be heard by a servant who was passing by. It was the same maid who was always wandering in the nearby of Harwin - and the Hand’s daughter realized that a girl the age of Brandon has just beaten her, soundly, and without even a stick.

She glared at the pretty child dancing her way to the Maegor’s Holdfast, and couldn’t avoid a smile. _My brother is awake, and becoming a knight is a dream for the such of Alyn - stupid, strong ones. Bran has lost the use of his legs, not of his wits, and if he’s clever the half of the princess..._

A pear fell splat on the ground, almost hitting her foot. Arya didn’t let it distract her, but the garden was crowded and she could do nothing but follow too slowly the black cat running away, through passages and walks and ramparts, until he entered into an arched window too narrow for her.

 _'…to see the fair maid, heigh-ho, heigh-ho. I’ll steal a sweet kiss with the point of my blade_ …' The languid voice of a gifted woman came from the upper part of the tower facing the sea, and Arya recognized it as the place where they had brought the tall girl and her father.

So, it was true they had a harpist singing for her, like they had commented in the kitchen. The she-wolf shared the same skepticism of the cooks, indeed, and their same curiosity. She had never seen a female singer, nor a blind female singer, and maybe she wanted even to see again Brienne, before she… _No use for stupid thoughts_ , the she-wolf realized, _I can’t sneak inside like a cat._ _They say there are a lot of guards guarding her, and that the kingslayer never leaves her side._

Arya tasted the blood on her lip, and shrugged. It made no sense all this bothering, not for a dying person. Maybe Brienne was really only asleep, after all. Maybe she disliked the hot and was waiting for the rain to wash the dust off the boiling cobblestones.

If so, the fucking Maid of Tarth was as stubborn as she was tall, and selfish. Arya still needed someone to spar with, and she wanted her, not that dumbs of Harwin and Tomard, who were rushing under the oppressive sun, in their ludicrous new cloaks of grey wool and satin. Pretty Jeyne's father was far behind them, but he was a stewart, and potbellied, unsuited for a run. _Let them sweat_ , she sneered, knowing the way to come back to the Tower of the Hand without being seen by them, or anyone else.

And it was always pleasantly cool, in the dark, hidden passages. Hunting cats had its advantages. No, it was not that bad, for a start, waiting for a lazy giantess to wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The harpist is singing 'Off to Gulltown' -- from ASOS, ARYA II
> 
> 'Off to Gulltown to see the fair maid, heigh-ho, heigh-ho.  
> I'll steal a sweet kiss with the point of my blade, heigh-ho, heigh-ho.  
> I'll make her my love and we'll rest in the shade, heigh-ho, heigh-ho.'
> 
> And, of course, "We're children, we're supposed to be childish" is a quote from ACOK, SANSA II --- Myrcella has Cersei's beauty, Jaime's softness and Tyrion's wits, she's simply the best


	50. She was

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SER ARYS' POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is longer than I wanted, I hope it will explain something...

KING'S LANDING - THE WHITE SWORD TOWER

“I’ll be there”, he stated, and Lord Caron looked at him doubtful. They were all thinking he was still weak, too weak, to be again on his feet in three days. _The last three days of the traitor’s life,_ he considered, bringing another spoon of broth till his lips, eager to recover his forces and show them how much they were wrong, all of them. Ser Mark, Ser Hyle and their giant friend, ser Ben, and now even Lord Bryce, who had been just the last one to come, feigning that he wanted to ‘ _pay his homage to the_ _heroic kingsguard and see if the bravest archer of Nightsong was well’._ More probably, the Lord just wanted to drink a good vintage and know something more, but ser Arys was plenty of wine, confusion and an increasing sense of irritation, nothing else.

He felt Anguy’s eyes on him. The archer was well, or, at least, well enough to walk without a northman bearing half of his weight - Porther, who had become a part of the furniture of the small, too crowded cell.

“I’ll be there, when the traitor’s head will fall to the ground”, Ser Arys repeated, sternly.

“I’ll be there with you, ser”, the archer agreed, gloomily. The redhaired man seemed as tired as the knight from Old Oak of all these people, of the news they brought with them. “Still, I can’t understand”, Anguy added, and the kingsguard’s knuckles became white around the spoon.

“The Septa has confessed. She poured sweetsleep instead of water in a vase, and it was so warm that it evaporated”, explained again ser Hyle, a softness in his voice, “I’ll never forget that smell, it was so sweet, like a million roses withering together…”

“It seemed an enchanted place”, confirmed ser Mark. “All people lying where the perfume had reached them.”

The big knight from House Bushy nodded, all proud in his new, gorgeous silk doublet. “I immediately held my breath, yet my legs were shambling, and the Lannister squire seemed to weight a hundred stones.”

“At least, you carried outside a Lannister, and not a poor squire”, lamented ser Hyle, trying to smile, but his smile had no mirth.

“It took three to bring out the Evenstar. I really don’t know how ser Jaime managed to carry the lady down the stairs…”

“He’s a kingsguard”, he interrupted ser Ben, and the big man quieted. Even ser Mark’s monkey was strangely calm. Maybe even the air in ser Arys’ room was poisoned. It wouldn’t have been that bad, after all. He was so tired, and it was too hot even to breathe.

Anguy was not satisfied, yet, damn all the gingers of Westeros. “But the sweetsleep is no dangerous. The Hand has awakened, so the Evenstar, the Lannister squire and any other. Why the lady hasn’t still awakened, then?”

 _Because she’s such stuff as dreams are made of. That’s why she’s still sleeping, and dreaming._ Ser Arys closed his eyes, to wide them open when Porther cleared his throat, all of sudden. Porther was no brazen like Anguy, the northman never talked when there were such honorable, yet undesired, guests.

“A friend of mine beds a girl, who serves a great Lady and she had heard her Lady talking with another Lord, the old one with the red and ermine litter”, the stout man blurted, toying nervously with his beard, “The Maid of Tarth has been very ill, as a child, they say. They made her drink too much sweetmilk, and it almost killed her, they say. The poison was already in her blood, they say.”

Ser Arys’ silver cup fell on the ground, with a rattling sound. The following silence lasted for what seemed a century. It was the Lord of Nightsong to break it, with his gentle, yet somehow hardened voice. “The last lady Caron, and my beloved stepmother, was the Evenstar’s sister. I was eight, more or less, when she received the news that Lord Selwyn Tarth’s only son had drowned, and his daughter had almost died in the same accident. The child was bedridden for several weeks, they say, yet she recovered, so she may recover even now, and forgive the poor Septa who made that terrible mistake.”

“Yes, a mistake, it has been only a mistake, a tragic mistake”, agreed ser Mark.

“No one might ever want to harm a maiden”, added lord Bryce.

“No one would. No one could be that dishonored and subtle.” The last words lingered in the air, and doubt lingered with them. Ser Hyle took a deep breath and a very large sip of wine, before speaking again. “Not a septa. I wonder if she has really had part any part in it.”

“Ser, you’re aware of what you’re saying, I hope”, lord Bryce warned.

“Am I? This wine is so strong... So was that smell, you should have been there, my lord. No chance of mistakes”, ser Hyle insisted. His companions looked made of stone, but they didn’t deny his declaration. His accusation.

“In the kitchens, they say that both the Payne squire and the septa talked about a blond, slender serving girl, bringing a costly vase of red roses, before the septa changed her mind and confessed”, added Porther, in a breath, looking terrified. It was terrifying, indeed. Anybody in the room seem smaller, and lost, for an endless instant.

“Lord Renly would never do harm to the Evenstar or to his daughter, never.” Lord Caron’s voice was steel.

“No, of course he wouldn’t. Who did it, wanted to do harm to the king’s brother, and to his Tyrell friends, or so it’s what Lord Tarly thinks on the matter. But... there a but, or mayhap I'm just too drunk to think straightly... how many people knew the lady Brienne has been weaned with drugged milk?”, the scarred knight asked to the vaulted ceiling. “It makes no sense, except if…”

“If?”, ser Arys pressed him, feeling on the verge to tear all those bandages off, and run away, shouting.

“Who sent the vase, he didn’t know, nor want to harm Br-the lady, he wanted to seize her”, concluded Anguy, exchanging an undecipherable look with ser Hyle, who nodded vigorously, too quickly and vigorously for a drunk man.

“This is a folly”, murmured lord Caron. “Why?”

“Don’t know, my lord, but that would explain why she’s into a tower cell, right now”, added the knight from Horn Hill.

“They say it’s no cell, more like to a royal apartment, with large bedchambers, an adequate solar, a bath, and even smaller rooms for servants... they say it was destined to an important guest in the past. A Blackfire. The last of Daemon’s sons”, commented ser Mark Mullendore.

 _Aenys Blackfire. The claimant to the Iron Throne who was welcomed as a guest and then murdered by ser Brynden Rivers._ Ser Arys woke up from the torpor in which he had fallen, feeling the need of drink something. Porther noticed it and picked up his cup, filling it with summer wine. _The Arbor Gold has finished, blessedly._

“They say, they say... The King knows surely something more than some serving girls or cooks or drunk men”, he affirmed, “There's only a traitor, who took advantage of the King's trust. If not for him, the Evenstar and his daughter wouldn't have been ambushed and wounded.” _And I wouldn't have been forced to bed, idle and useless._ Ser Arys raised on his feet, all by himself. It felt nice, even if the room spun a bit, when he lifted the cup with his left, awkward hand, “Three days and the traitor's head will be on a spike. To King Robert and to Justice. To the Lady, may she recover soon.” _She must._

“To the King, to the lady”, echoed Lord Caron, jerking on his feet. Men and knights followed, and left, finally. Even the archer dared to venture outside.

The kingsguard crumbled back on his bed, exhausted, but it wasn't finished, not yet. Porther was tugging at his sweated shirt like a begging child. “Ser. I lied. The blond girl with the vase full of poison... I didn't hear it in the kitchens, I heard about it in the Tower of the Hand, from the very lips of Lord Stark, but I wasn't supposed to be there, and I didn't mean to eavesdrop.”

“So what, Porther?”

“Don't know what to do, ser, now that Lord Eddard is a cell. In they kitchens they talk about another scandal. A small one. No highborns.”

Ser Arys looked at him exasperated, but any anger vanished, when he realized how much desperate was the stout man.

“They say that one of the Queen’s bedmaids has disappeared, probably she has escaped with a sailor. The same day of the... mistake”, Porther murmured so faintly that the kingsguard found himself leaning to listen. “She was blond, and slender.”

_She was._


	51. A dutiful woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CERSEI'S POV

KING'S LANDING – MAEGOR'S HOLDFAST - THE QUEEN'S GARDEROBE

The emerald was hanging so sad and lonely, still waiting for a servant so kind to take needle and thread, and fix it to the green silk dress the Queen was eager to wear. She made a warning sigh and darted her intimidating eyes all around the large room, looking for the stupid blond girl, before recalling that Senelle was dead.

 _Gone. Fled with a sailor_ , Cersei repeated to herself. _The girl was no more than a little, scheming whore, but it's a pity, all the same. She was the only one who could sew decently among my bedmaids._

She glanced down again at the brown-haired sow, who had practically entered with half her body into the big, heavy trunk to look for another green gown, but the one she found out with a shy smile was in samite, bordered with grey velvet, and it was too hot for it, and the details were all wrong, cloth-of-silver and delicate river pearls - what was supposed the Queen to do? How can someone be such idiot to imagine she could match her gold-and-emerald necklace with that old, worn dress?

The useless maid had at least the decency not to make out a sound, when Cersei whipped her with the clothe, the pearls and the silver pointed studs of the bodice leaving thin red lines on her ugly face and her lifted arms. For an instant, the Queen was reminded of Senelle – also her arms were full of scratches, and she was incredibly white, her lips were chalk, and curved in a half smile, as if the dagger that was buried in her stomach was just an ornament.

It was a pretty dagger, in truth. Lord Tywin had always had a certain taste for elegance and Cersei had inherited it, along with all her father's abilities. Commands were easy for her, she never flinched from decisions. With Senelle, she had not flinched, she had not even blinked. A look to the dagger, the dagger that her father had gifted her twin - her too impulsive, never thinking, twin - and she had asked ser Osmund Kettleblack to get rid of the corpse. Luckily, the broad shouldered man was the first one to discover Senelle's body. Luckily, he was eager to obey the Queen, and quick.

 _Very quick. A bit too eager, maybe,_ she mused, but she ought to know. It had never be good with anyone else than Jaime. _My golden twin, my other half. Clever enough to shock even Baelor's statue with his shouts and make everybody see that he was the ugly cow's rescuer, so no one might suspect him - and, in the same time, so dumb to leave his dagger in plain sight, just to start a war._ Cersei grimaced, uncertain if pushing the heavy lid of the trunk on the brownhaired bedmaid, that was still fumbling for another rag, and break her thick neck. She should do it, the girl was nought but another whore, and Tyrion knew more whores than Robert. Surely the Imp was spying on her, even from the Wall.

She should do it and, then, call ser Osmund again, to clean.

The Queen decided to be merciful and moved towards the window. From there, she could get a glimpse of the tall tower facing the sea, where Jaime was trapped with the King's beloved ward. Just for a brief time, yet. The Grand Maester had been very sure about it, the hideous woman wasn't going to wake, it was only her big body to resist, a few days, no more, and Cersei's grasp on the Rock would be stronger than before.

This was a good start, not as good as she had imagined, though. Unluckily, the Payne squire had been rigid and tongueless like his gaunt far-cousin, and her threats on him had the only result to make one of the Septa confessing, and exculpating Renly and his pretty Loras.

The Hand was in a cell, but she still needed to deal with the King's brothers. Both. 

_With Stannis, it will be easy enough. His seat is just a pile of steaming rocks._ The captain of the red cloaks had arrested a begging brother who was cursing the Lord of Dragonstone because he had left his King alone, awakening the stone dragons' wrath and causing the unnatural heat that was chocking the city. _I should reward captain Vylarr. Probably, now there are at least five men shouting the same rubbish. Stone dragons for Stannis and his monstrous, stony child - about Renly, we'll see. A sea dragon, maybe, and a cask of ale for the ice dragon who will be brave enough to swallow the indigestible Imp,_ Cersei chuckled and raised an imaginary toast with some real Dornish Red. _No, not an ice dragon for the Imp, some other frozen monsters. It's Robert who hates Targaryens' pets, Tyrion loves them, he might be pleased to end in a dragon's belly, if nothing else to spite me till his last breath._

"Your Grace, lady Sansa Stark asks for a word", said someone, and the Queen sighed. 

Envying her idle twin and the easiness with which he had found a way to rest all day, Cersei chose a plain cream dress, with rich embroideries on the sleeves and began to dress. In the end, she was not that bothered by the unexpected guest - she was such a dutiful wife, and sister, she would even be a marvelous good-mother. Undoubtedly. 


	52. No need of a tourney

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NED'S POV

KING’S LANDING - THE RED KEEP’S DUNGEONS

Even now that it was setting, the sun and its malefic heat sneaked through the narrow window, and tinged in a wild, luxurious pink the pale cloak, abandoned on the bed. The silken direwolf snarled, a red and purple snarl. It was too warm to wear anything but skin, but Ned Stark’s rage was ice, cooling up and down his veins, since the moment he had stepped the Traitor’s Walk to get to his cell. Situated in the top floor, the room was large and comfortable, yet it was a cell, no doubt about it or about the fact he was no longer the King’s Hand. A few hours before, when Robert had stormed to Ned’s solar with a little crowd of flatterers, his bearded face was already flushed with wine and royal wroth, and he had listened none of his Hand’s words. _None. Damn the man._

The door opened, with a creaking sound, and an annoying scent of mint announced the presence of the last man that the lord of Winterfell wished to see.

“I wonder if it was that wise defying the king, my lord”, said Littlefinger, as soon as the round faced guard left, taking elsewhere his sour wine smelling and its spiked steel cap. The short man seemed at ease in his blue-and-cream velvets even in that hell.

“I did my best to serve him. The next Hand will certainly do better.”

“He will last more than a few days, maybe”, lord Baelish shrugged, with his customary teasing smile. “He will make sure to answer to the king’s call, and let the Gods waiting.” Ned did no honor that with a reply, nor he offered him a seat, yet Littlefinger took one anyway. “It’s nice here, such a pity you won’t enjoy the place for long. One can’t see the sea from this tower, though. The lady’s rooms have a splendid view, they say. Lannisters have always had a soft spot for beauty.”

This time Ned looked at him abashed. He had been missing something.

“Not the lady’s beauty, obviously”, Littlefinger sneered, then made out an exaggerate sigh. “If you wouldn’t have wasted all your time quarrelling with the king about a fat Septa and a starved squire, you would have learnt many interesting things. While you were asleep like a pretty wolf-pup, the lion made up such a scene that the king allowed him to take the prey in a very lovely den, forgetting entirely the sad tendency of dying of the people entrusted to the kingslayer.”

“The girl is not dead.” _She’ll wake one day. Like Bran._

“The _girl_? Of course, The Evenstar’s daughter will wake soon, and dragons will fly again on this strange city, where the Red Keep is pink, and red houses are plentiful of wonders… Oh. I apologize, my lord, I shouldn’t talk about it, nobody should, she either should… she will never do it, now.”

Ice melts in Ned’s veins and he jumped on his feet, the hand closed in a ball.

“Don’t need another gentle brush from you, my lord”, said Littlefinger, raising slowly, his arms lifted in the mocking attempt of an embrace. “I just wanted to be sure that it hasn’t been you, and your reaction is worthy a thousand words”, he whispered. “So, it seems that they had won, they have the girl. As they wanted till the beginning, the only right thing you told the king, indeed. All your babbling about justice, honor… and vows. It would be nice to know which vow binds the king to that ugliest maid of Westeros, not that you will ever tell me. I’m only the one who tries to help Cat's solemn husband, but I’m the first to admit that it can be really dangerous to trust me.”

Ned shoot a cold glance towards the man, who had the contrite eyes of a sweet child caught stealing the last lemon cake. He hated those eyes, he hated everything of him, included his keep lost in the Fingers. ' _I have a small keep… who will ever notice a ship sailing in the night?'_ A disturbing thought passed through the lord of Winterfell’s mind, but he put it away. It made no sense. _Littlefinger had no interest in seizing the girl, she hasn’t seen him in the brothel, and he doesn’t even know who she her mother was…_

“Time to leave you to your pleasant brooding, my lord. Lady Tanda and her famous lamprey pie are awating me. Just a little thing, next time you’ll decide to raise the voice with the king, care more about instructing well your household. Maybe it’s the warm, but your men seem a bit distracted.”

“Arya?”, Ned almost stammered, but lord Baelish stroked his pointed beard and shook his head.

“The lady Sansa. In this very moment, she’s with the Queen. Oh, don’t dare to faint again, my lord, I’m not some beggar knights from the Reach eager to get a reward, I’d let you stiff and lonely to rest on the floor. Besides all, I’m quite tired, and envious. I should drink or breath some poison, and sleep a bit, now that I don’t have to find the money for the Hand’s tourney. You’ll be surely glad to know that the tourney will never be celebrated. The innkeepers won’t, and even the whores will complain.”

 _I am_ , thought Ned. _Desperately glad._


	53. The torn cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JAIME'S POV

KING'S LANDING - IN HER CHAMBER

The one-eared cat glared at him, his eyes vengeful and flecked with gold. He jumped again on her bed, this time clearly intentioned to stay, and Jaime gave up the thought of intervening. He was tired enough to see his father’s eyes on a tomcat, and chasing little snarks was not his first wish in the morning, when he awake. Well, when he still used to sleep and awake. That damned routine that he had lost, and Jaime knew not even why.

 _I’m no ordinary man, that’s all. I’ve breathed some poison and, on me, it has this strange effect._ His mouth twisted in a grimace, not wanting to think about it, or about Cersei. It must have been another one, not his twin. _Cersei probably thought it has been me_ , the knight considered. _A stupid ship takes fire. Put the blame on Jaime. A pigheaded wench sleeps too much. Put the blame on Jaime._ The idea of Cersei and Ned Stark agreeing on something, well, it was really laughable.

Jaime didn’t laugh, though. The sun beam on the ruby annoyed him, and he tucked the brooch under her pillow. The wench didn’t complain, at all, as he had suspected, so lord Selwyn and his crippled hand might amiably go bugger themselves. Jaime had given the brooch to the wench, and it was her precise duty, not her father’s, to return it. If she'd insisted about returning it.

He was plenty of brooches and rubies, in the end, he was sick of brooches and fat kings who liked to accuse the wrong idiots, and white-haired lords who liked to glare suspiciously at the wrong lion. The Evenstar was back in the slum, stiff, scornful and bandaged, to demolish building after building, with the king’s blessing. _Probably with the king himself,_ he supposed, _both of them tall, big and restless, with eyes like mountain lakes. Her eyes are so different, bluer… like in the book miniature._

Pycelle's old tome wasn’t that bad, in the end. Great Maester Malleon was a sad, boring man, but his handwriting was beautiful done, easily to read, even for Jaime’s weary eyes. And he knew how to bring life in a portrait. Such a pity that the kingsguard had accidentally ripped exactly the page with the best one of all his inked drawings. The tomcat’s fault, sneaking inside in that way, so silently. However, it was no great loss. The book was such big, who would ever notice the lack of a couple of pages? Curiously, the maester had chosen to depict Elenei, the legendary daughter of the sea and the wind, among the princesses, queens and ladies belonging to House Tarth, and not to House Baratheon, or Dundarron.

 _Probably the true ladies of Tarth were simply too ugly._ Jaime’s eyes lingered on the yellowed paper, his fingers brushing the old ink, still bright, then he rolled again the portrait and put it in safe. His glance came back to the mass of pale flax covering the pillow and the coverlet, far past the innocent hills on the wench’s chest.

The knight caught in his breath, just the time to verify the slow wave raising imperceptibly her breast, then he wondered.

He wondered how Brienne’s hair had grown so fast – only three days before, it was too short to hide her… collarbones.

He wondered if really the scar on her face resembled a little crescent moon or it was just his imagination.

He wondered if she was truly breathing a little louder now that his fingertips were tracing the crooked line of her nose. _How many times did you break it, wench?_ _Come on, you can get it. I’ll bet your fasting Septa has taught you how to count, it’s easy._ _One, two and three, you’re pesky as a bee._ _Four, five and six, end your silly tricks._ _Seven then eight, won’t bite the bait._ _Nine, and finally ten, it rhymes with Brienne._

_Brienne._

_It sounds like a girl’s name._

The cat hissed at him, almost claiming the harpist’s attention. Bethany Fair-Fingers, she was called, and effectively her fingers were long, elegant and dusky - a queer contrast with the wench’s thick and pale ones. The singer had also a pretty face, with just a few lines and her nut eyes were nice and warm, even if they couldn’t see. The tomcat could see, instead, but he couldn’t sing, or talk, only hiss and meow. _And scratch, maybe_ , _but not today_. The sly beast decided it was not the right day for taking a huge dive into the sea, red and dark in the last instants of the sunset. His fur was soft, after all, but not as soft as Brienne’s hair now that a merciful hand had brushed it, and black - like Jaime’s studded doublet, like the silk shadows on her face.

“Ser… which song do you prefer, now?”, a kind voice asked.

Jaime didn’t answer. His throat was a bit dry. It was too warm, simply that. And he was tired.

“Still the same song?”

 _Sing it, Beth. Please._ It was such a ridiculous song, yet sweet, and it helped him to close his eyes, for a while, with no haunting dreams.

_“You must remember this. A kiss is still a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh...’_

He had thought those dreams had passed, and yet. Jaime reached for his chair, reclined his head and let the music invade his sore body, and when it stopped, too early, the wench was still there, growing thin and exasperating pale, little rivers of dragonblood running, azure and cerulean, underneath a transparent skin.

“Again. Please”, Jaime closed his eyes.

She was one of them. King Maekar was tall and magnificently built, according to _The Lineages and other idiotic stuff_. His first daughter had the harsh king's hair, almost white with a hint of gold, and the big eyes of her mother, a Dayne of Starfall, tinged of the darkest shade of blue.

_‘Moonlight and love songs are never out of date. Hearts full of passion, jealousy and hate.'_

Daella was her name. Daella wed ser Duncan the Tall, and they had a daughter, fair haired and blue eyed, the Grand Maester Malleon annoted.

_'Woman needs man, and man must have his mate.'_

So ser Duncan had a life before joining the kingsguard. A true life. Steel songs, and warm hands wrapping him in the long nights. A king for squire and a princess for wife, and the wench for great-granddaughter. _No wonder if she's a bit taller than the average._

_‘No one can deny. It's still the same old story, a fight for love and glory, a case of do or die.’_

_And strong. Like king Maekar, or ser Duncan the Tall. A fighter. She can fight, she fought her way clean through a mass of outlaws, as if she were born on a battlefield. Gods, she's too good at it, I must tell Tyrion, and Addam._ He blinked at the cat, then turned and saw the singer, too tall to be his brother, too dark-skinned to be his friend. The cat was too a cat to be both.

_‘The world will always welcome lovers, as time goes by.’_

“Times goes by. Why? It should stop, sometimes. It must”, someone said to the harpist with Jaime's voice. _No, it's too raucous to be my voice_ , he told to himself, the sound of close steps forcing him back on his feet, ready, a hand on the hilt of his blade. The kingsguard slammed open the door before the intruder could knock and bother her dreams, but it was only the heir to Ashemark. He hated that man.

“For Gods’ sake, Jaime... When was the last time you did sleep?”

He decisively hated that man and his copper head. How Addam came there that late, just for talking nonsense, it was a mystery. A mystery like the wench, from her hair too long till her upsetting freckles, now tiny pale boats, adrift on a sea of white and shadows.

No fucking Targaryen had ever had freckles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bethany Fair Fingers is my Sam, and her song is Dooley Wilson's 'As time goes by'...
> 
> I don't own anything, obviously, I just like this artist, and Casablanca. Thank you for reading.


	54. The willow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BRIENNE'S POV

TARTH – THE GREAT WATERFALLS

Too late. He had saw her, and it was useless trying to hide, now.

“Brienne. For Gods’ sake, you’re hurt”, her father’s big hand remained suspended in midair.

 _O_ _ne day, my hands will be big as these one, maybe even bigger,_ she realized and hunched her shoulders, stepping out of the pool, all by herself. It was only a broken nose. It ached, not that badly, after all. And the satisfaction of having beaten both the cook’s boy and his bigger friend with Gal’s sword, well, it compensated the dull throbbing of her already homely face and the taste of dried blood on the back of her throat.

Gal’s sword. An elegant, swift, white blade, a gift from the good master-at-arms for his eighth name day. His last one. The too tall child hoped her father didn’t notice it, but her lips didn’t free any prayer in the humid air. Lately, Gods were a bit absent, and she was too enraged with them, in truth. 

“Brienne, you’re still recovering. You shouldn’t fight, you shouldn’t be here.”

“Why? It’s beautiful here”, she replied calmly. Behind her father, ser Godwin made out a chocked warn, whist lord Selwyn darkened, closing both hands in a fist.

The waterfalls were actually beautiful, as they had always been. Nothing had changed there, and if she closed her eyes she could still see the yellow boat, and hear Galladon’s song. 

“The wooden sword”, said finally her father. The thunder from the falls couldn’t mask the desperate darkness of his voice. “You did climb. Again. I should wall up even the windows.”

Brienne glanced up at his clear eyes, feeling not guilty. Only sad.

Her breeches were soaked wet, and she didn’t remember where she had posed her boots. The Lord of Evenfall Hall was gorgeous in his doublet of azure samite slashed with pink and silver thin silk, yet he looked a soaked cat all the same, in a way. She was not a good daughter. Not the daughter the Evenstar deserved. Just the only one the Gods had left him, and if he needed to bury all Galladon and mother’s things in a walled room to feel slightly better, she could do it, too. For him. Never talk about them, or about Alysanne or Arianne. She could do it, and remember them all, all the same. Her sisters had died before she was born, but she imagined them beautiful, and freckled, just like Galladon and Mother, both smiling in the oval portrait she had find out in her brother’s chamber. _My perfect, always smiling, knight._

Her boots were just a few steps on the right. A frog glared at her, and jumped away from the muddy leather, with a green, smug indolence. Brienne put the boots on and took her father’s hand. “I promise you I will never enter though the window, never more. Just… let me keep Gal’s sword, Father. Please.”

He nodded, and she had quite the sensation that the brazen frog had just settled in lord Selwyn’s throat. It was weird.

“You were really good”, he said later, while they were wading the stream that was halfway to their castle, and ser Godwin smiled on his dornish mare. “With the sword, in the pool. You’re still too young maybe, but you’re tall enough to begin training with the master-at-arms. No more broken noses, if it pleases my lady”, lord Selwyn crushed her on the saddle and kissed her nape, then laughed, finally, and the laugh boomed and reverberated in her chest. She loved his laugh, she had been missing it, so much.

About her nose, she could promise nothing, but she promised to the limpid waters that she would have loved only a knight with a golden laugh, and a shining smile. “Beauty”, whispered the willow on the bank, but the reeds said, “fool, fool”, and Brienne shuddered, remembering she was a freakish wen- child, and that, sometimes, wenches or children fell, when climbing too high. It was so strangely cold, all of sudden, even if the sun was strong and bright above her, its rays caressing her in such a delicate, merciless way.


	55. Old man in sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SER BARRISTAN'S POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Trauernder alter Mann" or "Old man in sorrow" - a painting so vivid, and blue. I wish to see it live,a soon as this global folly will end

KING’S LANDING – IN THE NEARBY OF RIVER ROW

The King and lord Renly wore splendid clothes, and mounted gorgeously draped horses, looking more father and son, than siblings. They caught in the eye, but the people passing by glanced furtively not at them, but at the old, wounded knight. _The betrayed guest_ , they’d whisper in the shelter of their houses. _The lord who had promised the Gods to demolish half the city, to make it clean again_ , they’d proclaim in the market square. _The man with a star for name, and an enchanted maiden for daughter_ , they were already singing in inns and brothels.

A dangerous man, even now that his left arm was dangling in a sling, the fingers rigid and lifeless. Lord Selwyn’s handsome face gave no hint as what he was thinking about or what he might do next, and, absurdly, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was reminded of ser Mandon Moore, for the second time in the space of a few hours.

“Don't know, m'lord. He had the eyes of a fish, and he looked ill, but he was strong, and had a longsword. A true one”, had said the sailor on the Sea Star, a young man who was sure that he had escaped death for a breath, jumping from the prow as the stranger who put the ship afire came after him.

 _It can't be. He's a sworn brother of the kingsguard, and he was protecting prince Joffrey that night_ , the old knight reflected. The prince had asked expressly of ser Mandon and, surely, he had no reasons to do harm to the Evenstar and his daughter. A quarrel between the King and the Lord of Tarth, or the incident in the yard weren't a good reason for...

A Lannister always pays his debts. The realization chilled ser Barristan's spine, and he felt old. _Too old for another Aerys, may the Chrone lead me with her bright lamp._

“… soon, they will answer soon. From the Citadel to Castle Black, where the maester is almost a century old but incredibly lucid and wise, any maester of Westeros has been reached by a crow”, there was a chink in lord Renly’s voice. Concern, muddying the blind trust of a summer knight. “No doubt they will find a way, a medication….”

With a shrieking sigh, another building crumbled to the ground, and a thick dust concealed workers and curious ones, like a solid mist, sticking to the sweated bodies. Marvel, excitement, bother, tiredness, the chalk faces showed any kind of emotion. Only one was so still and white that it seemed carved in a weirwood tree.

Lord Selwyn's.

 _A dangerous man, and my duty is to protect the King. From anyone. Even from a good man. Even from the most honorable ones of all men_ , the knight repeated to himself, noticing that the rubble was so similar to Hollard castle’s ruins. Ser Barristan’s jaw tightened, and suddenly he felt worse than old and dusty. He felt hollow.

***

“Eat. For Brienne's sake, if not for Gods”, commanded softly Lord Selwyn, and the dike broke. Septa Roelle's sobs were loud and frantic, like prince Tommen's when his brother had closed him in an oak chest just for 'playing', and her slender frame startled at each sigh, looking very frail and thin, having fasted since the day of the incident.

The other Septa whispered something into her ear and began to spoon-feed her, slowly, gingerly, whilst tears still ran on gaunt cheeks and on plump cheeks, too. The Lord Commander wondered how he couldn't have noticed it before. They had the same eyes, pale, gray, with a hint of lilac. _Innocent eyes._

The gentle intimacy with which Septa Donyse was stroking the grief-striken woman opened ultimately ser Barristan's eyes, and he finally recognized both of them.

Late Lord Penrose's daughters, and his pride, savvy and sweet to look upon, sharing the same blood of the dragon kings, trough princess Elaena and king Maekar's younger daughter. The handsomer of the two had given scandal refusing sternly to wed, choosing the Faith instead, and the Faith must have welcomed even her meek sister, that Ser Barristan had believed dead.

Slain with her child, in one of king Aerys' purges.

"Sad necessity", the Spider had whispered.

"Traitor's blood must be poured abundantly or the wound will fester", had added Great Maester Pycelle, as soon as it had been evident that ser Richard Lonmouth had followed his liege Lord, and not his prince and former friend.

"Justice be done", had ordered the King, his arm trembling and bleeding. The Iron Throne always cut him, and he seemed so small compared to it.

Even the Septas' cell had become suddenly small, as if it wanted to swallow the old man in sorrow.

***

For a heartbeat, ser Barristan had deluded himself. The lady was in a cushioned armchair, facing the sea and the stars, but her head was resting on a pillow and her eyes were still closed.

The Evenstar brushed lightly her brow with a kiss, then looked down to the Queen’s brother, deeply asleep in a chaise near the maid, before going to his bedroom, saying no word. A stubble of beaten gold glimmered tenuously on ser Jaime’s cheeks, whilst his close friend, lord Marbrand’s only son, was clean shaven and perfectly in order, and his blade was known to be quick and deadly.

 _It’s a good thing. Odd, but good_ , _somehow right,_ the kingsguard instinctively thought, and he was already half door when another thought came into his mind. _Beautiful. They're beautiful, together._

And that wasn't good, at all.

***

Kisses and skulls cheered on silk, and the groom was drunk, for the wine and for the merriment, laughing hard with lord Robert. The Prince of Dragonstone smiled at their jokes and sang in the honor of the bride, shy and light as a dove in ser Barristan's arms, whilst they danced on the marble floor. She had gray-lilac eyes and flowers in her hair, but the Lord Commander didn't recall if they were roses or other blossoms. Too many years had passed.

He picked up a withered petal, and stared at the heaped sheets and the fragments on the floor, shining in the lamp light. Someone had broken the large window's panels, but the air was still hardly breathable. Anything in the chamber spoke of betrayal, of haste, of fear. _The same fear a king would call justice, maybe._

There was a book, a very thin one, that had opened in two parts, lying on the carpet near the entrance, and something white, abandoned on a chair. A silk cloak, trimmed in cloth-of-gold. The kingslayer's, but the smell of sea and meadows was hers, and the dark stains on it were a maiden's blood.

The walls closed around him, and the knight hurried away, welcoming the absurd heat of the outside and, short later, the familiar shape of the White Sword Tower. Any step he climbed, he felt slightly better, and he almost smiled when he saw the door of the Lord Commander's room.

Almost.

“A word, my lord”, pleaded ser Arys Oakheart, his face sweated and white, like the two cloaks ser Barristan had, one on his shoulders and one in his hands. He let it fall, along with the torn book, to prevent his brother from collapsing. “The lady Brienne... the Queen”, were the young knight's last, feverish words.


	56. Being part of the royal family

KING'S LANDING - THE QUEEN'S ROOMS

Everything in the chamber was golden and beautiful, like her.

She was so good. Of course, sometimes a Queen must seem harsh, and even cruel, but _that_ wasn’t really, really, really Queen Cersei. Sansa was almost a woman grown, and she knew, now. The Queen was nought but brightness, and she would have helped Father, with all her forces.

 _She promised me. A Queen’s promise,_ giggled Sansa, brushing the sheets, silken sheets. And the canopy was all gold and crimson - blinding, even if the shutters were still half closed. The Queen was so gentle, she wanted Sansa to rest a bit more, and forget all concerns.

“Concern changes you into an ugly duckling, sweetheart, and Joffrey’s queen must be gorgeous and elegant, like a swan”, the Queen had said, leaving a little peck on her forehead, before going to welcome some important guests. If Sansa brought a finger there, on her lucky brow, she could still feel the sensation of Queen Cersei’s lips. _Cersei, Cersei, Cersei._ She was so sweet to look upon, and even her name was gentle. _Cersei, Cersei, Cersei._

“You’re really lovely, my lady”, the red-eyed maid interrupted Sansa’s dreams. The girl looked into the mirror and was pleased of what she saw. She saw a small Cersei with shining auburn hair, in green samite and cloth-of-silver, the delicateness of the pearls contrasting with pointed silver studs. No one would have believed that it was an old dress, the maid had done a great work, and quickly - now she might go sleeping. The poor woman had spent all the night in sewing and she was so tired that, when Sansa thanked her with a smile, she almost looked frightened, and even the cat’s scratches on her long face paled. 

The Queen was graceful even when she was breaking her fast with some delicacies like fried eggs, and Joffrey was simply wonderful, like in the first day they had met. Tall, and lissome. Green eyed and green dressed, matching with Sansa’s silks. She blushed, wondering if it was a coincidence, or another of the Queen’s attentions for her.

Little sweated Tommen almost fell from his chair while trying to pick up a cake that was on the floor, and Myrcella squeezed his plump hand and shoot a defying glare to her future king, when the latter scolded the awkward wimp of seven.

Rolling her eyes, Sansa drowned herself again in Joffrey’s smile, laughing at his jokes and at Moonboy’s jests, quite incredulous of her luck. _Our luck, maybe._ She and Joffrey should enjoy the other’s sweet presence every day, instead of worrying about his too meek brother and her too fiery sister.

Deep down, Sansa still conserved the same doubts about Arya she had as a child, when she had run to Father and asked him if he was sure that Arya was her sister and not only Jon’s. Probably even her gallant Joffrey had doubted that Tommen was just a half-brother, sometimes. 

The prince poured her a cup of wine, and Sansa felt dizzy. It was all perfect, too perfect to last. She glanced at the door, as if Arya could enter and spoil everything, again.

It was the King who stormed inside, instead, and bellowed and lifted Joffrey from his chair, holding him from the collar of his magnificently embroidered doublet, and shaking him as if the prince were a stupid ragdoll. Myrcella brought Tommen behind ser Barristan, who had followed the big bearded brute, but the Queen screamed and launched herself against her husband, and he finally left Joffrey. Her poor, marvelous prince, dazed and bruised, on the floor. A hole appeared in his perfect mouth, and a candid tooth on the myrish carpet.

“Do you still like playing with fire, lad?”, roared King Robert, his eyes filled with an anger that Sansa had never seen in her father. _Ours is the fury_ , she recalled, but there was something even more primitive in those blue lakes, something like desperation. It was all senseless, and cruel, like the king’s glance to his handsome, dignified wife.

“You hurt him. You’re a monster”, she said, and looked every inch a Queen.

“A monster’s father, yes, I am. Lancel! Tyrek! Where are my fucking squires, now?” A golden-haired boy answered with a voice so thin that Sansa didn’t hear his words. “Go Lancel, tell your lovely cousin I’ve just summoned Stannis from Dragonstone. He may be the last hope for this, this… “, the king looked down at his trueborn son and heir, still shocked and pale. “Gods, help me, I have a thirst. Pour me some wine, you lackwit.”

The squire and Moonboy moved together and the King swore. Then he noticed her.

“And you? What are you doing here, little she-wolf, dressed and combed like a mummer, whilst your father is in cell?”, he bellowed, “You, all of you, here, binging and laughing, and one of the sworn brother of the kingsguard is dead, and the King’s own ward and guest is slowly withering like a…”

“You care more about that ugly cow, than of your children”, the Queen broke in.

 _She’s not an ugly cow,_ thought Sansa.

“She’s not an ugly cow”, echoed Tommen, loudly, among his sobs. “Nuncle said she’s beautiful.”

“The faster she dies, the better is for anyone, even for that perfumed bitch of your _nuncle_ Renly”, shouted the Queen, and this time she didn’t look a Queen.

The King knocked down the table, as if it was made of feathers, and the table was of massive, old oak, so preciously carved… Sansa’s head was spinning, and something ached inside her. _She’s not dying. Father is going to be free, soon._ She lost herself, and fled, and when she stumbled upon the Hound, dreadful and smelling of leather and sweat, she started weeping like a silly child.

“Hush, little bird, no one will ever harm you, or your Father. I’ll bet even Stranger on it. They put the blame on a poor Septa, and will delight the commoners with a few heads, but none important and powerful like the Warden of the North. Hush, child, spare the voice for your stupid songs of beauties and fucking knights.”


	57. Stone dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MAESTER CRESSEN'S POV

DRAGONSTONE – AEGON'S GARDEN

_“_ See, my lady, they're just stones. They're not going to harm us”, the Maester said, holding on a single-winged griffin and trying to fill his voice with measure and trust.In truth, the sight of the towers oscillating in the Dragonmont steams made his legs weak like an old man's legs, but he was an old man, with bad hips.

Cressen stroked gently the child's dark hair. She hardly noticed it, still oppressed by her evil dreams. _Or by memories. Greyscale and a cold mother, the Gods has not been kind with my sweet, little lady. Not with that poor friend of her, either._

“ _Under the sea, the lion looks alike a torn cat. Up here the cat looks at the lion, and they both look, look, look at a falling star_ ”, the fool was singing, and lady Shireen glanced at him, half amused and half concerned, bringing a hand to her neck, where the flesh was pink and untouched - the soft skin of a child of scarcely nine.

Not for the first time, the Maester prayed silently that, one day, someone might see beyond the crude armor of pain that the illness had left her, and banish the sadness from the child's bright eyes. She deserved it. She deserved to be loved, and have children with bright blue eyes, one day.

 _“Under the sea, the falling star wakes the dragons, and smoke rises in bubbles, I know, I know, oh, oh, oh_ ”, the bells rang, as Patchface hopped back and forth, as if he was really seeing bubbles raising from the hardened ground.

“There's no living dragons, in all the known world, I can ensure you”, insisted the Maester with the child.

“I know, I know, oh, oh, oh”, she said, daring a shy smile. “Sea dragons, stone dragons and ice dragons are just a tale for children. Yet Father has the blood of the Dragonlords, hasn't he?”

“The blood of the Storm Kings, and Targaryens' blood, too”, he nodded, feeling glad that the fool was running behind a huge dragonfly, his red-and-green clothes soaked with sweat. It was so incredibly warm, even under the dark trees, that Cressen was reminded of a hellish summer in the Citadel, when he was still forging the chain that now seemed so heavy to bear. “You're the descendant of a beautiful princess, my lady”, he added, desiring to be young again, and have the occasion to change something in the life that was slowly slipping from his spotted, unrecognizable fingers.

Shireen smiled. A dreamy smile, and melancholic, in the same time. Bells clinked and clanged in the distance.

“Dragon blood is a rare gift. It may influence your dreams”, the maester explained. “There's only a few people that can claim to descend from the... dragonlords.” _Kings. I was saying kings, I'm turning in a giddy child, like my old friend Walgrave, may the Mother protect us._ “You, my lady, your lord father and his noble brothers. The princes of Dorne, through princess Daenerys, and some other ancient Houses, like House Penrose of Parchments. Even the Evenstar, which is twice related your lord father, descending from the Laughing Storm by his father's side and by princess Daella Targaryen by his mother's.”

“The Evenstar?”

“The Lord of Evenfall Hall, in Tarth, my lady.”

Shireen's eyes went wide. “Why do they call him Evenstar?”

“The origins of the title are lost in the mist of the past. Maybe it's because the Tarth arms show moons and suns, and you should know that the last star of the evening and the first star of the morning are, actually, the same star, and some maesters believe it to be a wanderer. Just don't tell the Septon”, he winked. The wanderers were seven, and only seven they must be, one for each God. Sometimes, Cressen felt even more foolish and heretical than Patchface, but the child's smile reached her eyes, this time - and he hadn't finished, not yet. “There's also a legend. Once, the sun and the moon wed and had a daughter, the Evenstar. A very curious one, and rebel, who chose to hide under the sea. But she was only a child, a tall, big star-child, and she forgot to hide...”

The maester made some mummer's gestures, and the smart girl looked at him, incredulous.

“Her buttocks?”, she asked, flushing.

“Her buttocks, my lady. They still emerge from the sea, forming the Island of Tarth.” She giggled, and a man laughed with her, his body half covered by a huge pine. The maester glared at him, but it was only ser Davos, maybe not the greatest knight ever, but a good man, and his salt fish and onions had saved more lives than all the swords that brave Donald Noye had been forging during the siege.

“Sorry, maester. M'lady. Such a nice tale, my younger children will love it”, the slight man wiped the sweat from his brow with a sleeve, glancing warily at the Dragonmont and its enraged roars. “If we don't end like roasted turnips. Not you, m'lady, only the such as me. The ones with no dragonblood and no protection from fire.”

 _A good man, and such an ignorant one. Dragonblood didn't protect king Aegon, nor his kin, at Summerhall. The fire devoured so many good people, and children..._ Prince Rhaegal was born there, and the Mad King believed that another baby had survived, and wanted her as a bride for his son, but he was mad, truly mad. In his travel to the Free Cities, Lord Steffon and Lady Cassana had found only Patchface and their death.

The little lady made out a soft cry when the fool came back, and jumped to her side with a handful of cranberries. “ _Under the sea, you fall up, and the star falls up, and only a foolish cat can fish her_ ”, he was singing, and the sound of his bells was almost solid in the heavy, steamy air. The heat made Cressen's hip ache even worse than usual, and Pylos was in the rookery, sending an answer to King's Landing.

A void reply. _Renly, my sweet Renly, there's nothing I can do for you, nor for the Evenstar's daughter. I wish that I could, I wish I knew something, more useful than tales and legends. I don't even know why is so hot._ The maester glimpsed at the red tracks of cranberries on the dying grass, refusing to look at Shireen and Patchface playing among the torn bushes, in the menacing shadow set by the smoking mountain.

“This is not normal, maester”, said ser Davos, as soon as the little lady was out of hearing. “I've never seen a sea so flat, almost lifeless, and the Dragonmont... I wonder what's happening elsewhere. Even the Wall will melt, if things won't change.”

“I'm going to talk with Lord Stannis, about coming back to King's Landing”, the maester replied, waving a hand towards the onion knight. _Not that Stannis will ever listen_.

“By oars,” grumbled the honest smuggler, helping Cressen to walk towards the castle, his shortened fingers well in sight.

“By oars, then, if it's needed”, replied a leather voice. Pylos was struggling to keep Lord Stannis’ pace, a letter in his strong, young hands. Cressen had noticed no crow arriving, and that troubled him worse than his bad hip. “The king needs his brother, for once.”

The lord of Dragonstone wasn’t smiling, he never smiled, yet his face was less hard than usual. _A brother always needs his brother, like a sailor needs a good wind, and the earth needs rain, now more than ever,_ the Maester considered, and smiled in his favorite child’s place.


	58. The letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JON'S POV

CASTLE BLACK – THE COMMON HALL

  
  


He had no ink and quill, nor he knew what he had to write. The dwarf made it look so easy.

“Just write down something. Bran is your brother, he will know”, lord Tyrion had said, before barking to the maester's ugly steward, and give him a letter. “It's urgent, and it's very important. Be careful about it,” the Imp had added, with that stern tone of command which resembled too much to a Lord-Tywin's-trueborn-son tone not to be obeyed.

Someone ought to explain to the small and arrogant man that at the Wall there were no servants, only brothers, but that someone wasn't Chett. Nor Jon. Not after Lord Tyrion's gift for his brother.

Even Ghost's eyes had sparkled a bright red, when he had showed him the dwarf's drawing of a saddle, fit for a crippled child. Because Bran had awakened, but he would never be the same as before, nor become a knight... Sighing, Jon looked up, and the Wall glanced down at him. It was weeping, weeping sorely.

 _It's not that absurd_ , the sullen boy told to himself, reaching the others. It was still cold, but not that fucking cold. It was almost warm - for Castle Black, at least.

Under the timber roof of the common hall, men were drinking ale and making bets about the unusual lack of wind and fresh snow, but Grenn simply shrugged.

“Warm is good. I like warm, I was almost forgetting how nice is walking without a damned fur”, he said, and Pyp raised quickly his brows to warn him, but an heavy cuff landed the same on the thick-headed boy's ear, with an unpleasant, yet reasonable, sound.

“This is the Wall, lad. No place for summer pups”, Ulmer said, and dark-faced men agreed and commented harshly from the tables, before coming back to their mutton stew.

Grenn's ears turned crimson both, like the dwarf's costly doublet, but the tall guy wasn't truly a summer pup, he was just big and a bit dumb, well, maybe more than a bit, he was clearly too dumb to understand that jokes and bets were only a way to mask the tension, and forget the rumors, which were already spreading, after uncle Benjen and his rangers had gone missing.

 _Stupid, meaningless rumors._ One of the winches had made a creaking sound which had been resembling a maiden's cry. One of the beams that anchored the stair leading to the top of the Wall had moved, under the weight of a only man – it was too warm, and the Wall was melting, they say, whilst the evil lingering the Haunted Forest was ready to show its claws, like a raging lion.

A little, very little lion joined Jon and his company. _It's nice to have a company_ , thought the bastard boy, and, in his heart, he was bold enough to call them friends, now. Pyp, Grenn and, why not, maybe even that queer thing looking at him with knowingly, mismatched eyes.

“Lord Snow”, the wicked Lannister teased him, winking.

“Careful, Imp. I'm getting fond of that title”, Jon replied, with a smile meant to reassure Grenn.

“With the rags you wear you seem more another thief than a Lord, but I presume you can read, at least.”

"You know I can”, he admitted, a bit shameful. It wasn't a thing that many other in the hall could boast.

“See the point? Many Lords never learn reading”, lord Tyrion added, with a cutting grin. For an instant, Jon recalled the kingslayer. Just for an instant, no more, the two brothers couldn't be more different. “Come with me. Your friends are also welcomed, if they're clever enough.”

“I am. He isn't”, said Pypar, pointing at Grenn. “But he's big enough to carry you, my lord. It's a long, muddy path from here to the maester's rooms.”

“Yes, you are. And, even if I always dreamed to ride a dragon, this time I'll be content with riding an aurochs”, concluded lord Tyrion, and the Aurochs opened and closed his mouth, but followed the half-man, all the same.

  
  


Halfway to their destination, Jon leaned towards Pyp and whispered, “How did you know he wanted to bring us to the rookery?”

The mummer's boy wiggled his large ear, as if Jon's breath had tickled him, then looked at him with a mix a pity and disbelief. “What did the Imp ask you yestermorn?”

“About the letter?”

“Yes, about the letter he got from the capital”, Pypar smirked.

Jon was still confused. The dwarf had giggled like a child, while reading it, but he never showed its content, only hinted about the fact the writer had met a very tall and hideous wench.

“Well, he asked me why his friend had needed a very long letter to describe the wench's ugliness, and I answered that she was probably really ugly, uncommonly ugly.”

"And what lord Tyrion told you, then?”

 _You know nothing, Jon Snow_ , the Imp had said. Not that Jon would ever repeat that undeserved, wretched words. He was Ned Stark's son, after all, not the stupid son of a mummer, of a butcher or whoever else.

“All right. Your memory is weak like a crone's one, Jon”, smiled Pypar, “Still, I agree with the Imp, for once, and, before hitting me, please consider two little things. The first is that you don't read the snow, you read books, and which is the only place, here, where you can find books or similar?”

The maester's keep was before them, now - sober and yet massive, made of thick wood - and the Imp was already climbing down Grenn's broad shoulders. The dwarf looked triumphant, like a child on a donkey, pretending to be a knight on a warhorse. Grenn looked a perfect donkey.

“And the second thing?”, Jon murmured, worried of being unconsciously wearing a couple of nice donkey's ears, him too.

“Lord Tyrion is a Lannister and a dwarf”, Pyp's smile widened. “He has no friend. Only a brother, a very famous brother, indeed, who's curiously falling for a wench of uncommon beauty.”

Jon felt the sudden impulse of braying.

  
  


“Hurry up, lads. Don't let a dragon wait for you”, pressed the Imp. “About you, bat-girl, my ears are smaller than yours, but they work quite well. No need to add anything else, if you're smart half you boast.”

“To add, what? My memory is weaker than Lord Snow's”, Pyp hastily said.

The gold lion fastening furred cloak on lord Tyrion's shoulders was less threatening than his smile, but then the Imp began joking and laughing again. He was clearly glad to walk towards dusty tomes and a man who was a century old. Yet his mood changed, and dramatically, when saw the sadness in maester Aemon's milky eyes, and Clydas read them the last letter coming from King's Landing. The King's own brother was asking for an help, a remedy to the sweetest of all poisons.

“Tell me you didn't send that crow, not yet”, the Imp almost shouted to Chett, who was arriving with a pile of yellowish scrolls.

“You said 't was an urgent letter, m'lord”, growled the petty man, smugness dancing among his revolting boils. _He's only a bag of pus, not even the news of an innocent in agony can move him,_ Jon considered, horrified, and he was absurdly glad to have gifted Arya with Needle.

The gasp that the dwarf made out at Chett's words was hurtful, and for the space of a blink, the donkey of Winterfell thought that the maiden mentioned in the letter could be the wench. The kingslayer's wench.


	59. Khaleesi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DAENERYS' POV

THE DOTHRAKI SEA 

Twelve horses in a few hours. The Silver had neighed softly when the last one had collapsed not far from them. 

And the grass was withering, visibly. 

Dany was still a stranger in this sea of green and of threatening bronze, but she didn't need to ask to know it was abnormally hot.

Dany was still young, but she didn’t need to see the concern in ser Jorah’s eyes to understand.

She was in danger, and the little dragon in her belly with her. She stroked him, and closed her eyes, praying for the rain to come, praying for Viserys not to be... Viserys.

 _Not too much, at least._ She sighed, and lingered in a dream she had had once, a dream in which she had a sister, not a brother. "A tall sister, with long hair, longer than mine, and her eyes are gentle", she confessed on ser Willem's knees, and the old, good knight smiled, and talked and coughed about a fair island, weddings and other things she couldn't recall. _A sister who'd protect me_. Viserys would rather burn the world than protect her, or himself, from his own pride. _Beginning from the island where I was born, judging from the last glance he has gifted me._

“Khaleesi, would you like a bath?”

Dany opened her eyes. “Irri. Repeat what you’ve said.”

“Khaleesi? A bath? With fresh water?”

She smiled fondly to the copper-skinned girl, who was wiser than a king’s daughter, and accepted gladly.

“Khaleesi, I’m a khaleesi, now, not a stranger. I’m not stranger, here, nor you are, little one”, she murmured to her belly, and smiled again. The worry had poured out her skin like drops of sweat. of course, ser Jorah was still a stranger, in a dying sea of grass, but he had his wits and his sword, while Viserys - well, he was a king, and a dragon.

 _A dragon doesn’t mind a bit of warmth._ Dany clapped her hands to attract the attention of the pretty bosomed girl near her.

“Jhiqui, go and tell Irri I’ve changed my mind. The water, for my bath – it must be hot. Very hot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dany, sweet, fierce khaleesi - I'm still shocked for what they did to her in GOT.   
> This is not a fix-it fic, though, it's simply the same world, with a twist that catapults Brienne in KL and (almost literally) in Jaime's arms already in 298...


	60. A market day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ARYA'S POV

KING'S LANDING - THE RED KEEP - MAEGOR'S HOLDFAST 

_The silent sisters will surely have troubles with the kingsguard’s corpse._ The day was so hot that the body had begun to rotten whilst it was still impaled on the high spikes crowding the dry moat around Maegor’s Holfast, and some rests were destined to remain where they had melted and fallen.

The crows refused to fly and clean the mess, the sun was too enraged, and the stench was raising in invisible puffs till the King’s rooms. The unlucky knight had chosen to fly from the King’s own solar, that was plain. Arya smiled, and decided she wanted a pie to celebrate. A succulent, hot pie.

***

“Beware, good fellows. The Gods have punished the evil one who covered himself with the color of a maiden’s skin. But until the heads of all the traitors won’t roll in the dust, the lady in the tower won’t wake up, and the Gods will lash us with their whips made of fire and flies”, a begging brother was shouting in the middle of the square, obtaining more coppers that the ones who still preached of stone dragons and too prideful northmen.

“He came from the Vale. Somewhere near the Mountains of the Moon. Up there, the air is so thin and cold that people go crazy when they come in this suffocating city” _,_ stated a fishmonger, with the solemnity of a septon.

“Yeah, like the late Hand’s wife. Her husband was still unburied and she was already running back in her nest” _,_ commented a sinewy man _,_ who looked a sailor, trying to catch a fly.

“Ser Moore?”, a Tyroshi spat the name as a curse. It was a Tyroshi, it must be, his beard was green and thick. “They saw him, at the harbor. He didn’t want her to leave the city, so put afire her lord father’s ship.”

“I saw him, the enchanted lady’s father, yesterday”, whispered a bosomed woman grasped to the green-bearded man. She didn’t seem his wife. “He was incredibly tall, taller than the King, and handsome, with long, white hair. I can hardly imagine how much beautiful must be his daughter.”

“What I told you, sweetling?”, the Tyroshi squeezed the woman’s butt cheek, and Arya got the confirmation she wasn’t his wife. “The kingsguards can’t wed, nor fuck, and then the Valeman set his eyes on the most beautiful woman on earth, no wonder he went crazy.”

“The Valemen are all a bit crazy”, repeated the fishmonger, “Take my sweet Leah…”

“Stop saying nonsense. And sell the fish, husband, before the warmth will ruin it”, broke in Leah, not so sweetly. 

The sailor shared an understanding look with the fishmonger, and bought something. Arya could smell his packet since the point where she stood. Wrinkling her nose, she glanced down at the poor begging brother who had curiously lost his balance, his mouth too full of dirt now, to bark like a dog against someone better than him, better than anyone. _Balancing is fundamental, says Syrio_ , she thought and moved, seeking for a bit of shadow.

“Have you heard? A kingsguard died in the early morning”, begun an old, wrinkled man, in a small gaggle of old, wrinkled people. “Sad times.” “Yes, sad times.” “He threw himself on iron spikes, his heart was broken.” “No, he killed himself, because the King had discovered the evil man had poisoned his ward.” “You’re a dumb, the kingsguard had fell for the lady.” “He loved her, so he tried to seize her, but he did a mistake and now the lady is dying, I know it for sure, my daughter work as a servant in the Red Keep.” “Evil times” “When we were young, maidens were safe.” “Once, maidens wed at twelve, no later, if the lady had already a husband…” “She has her Father, a very rich lord, and they say the Kingslayer has been running after her all night in the gutter.” “The kingslayer? She must be really a beauty to make him recall he’s a knight” “You’re wrong, all of you. She’s the King’s ward, that’s why the King shoved ser Moore from his window.” “The fool has opened his mouth." "GO BUGGER YOURSELF AND THIS DAMN'D HOT" “Hush, it has been an accident, instead.” "Do you want to attract the gold cloaks?” “He went crazy, I say, and killed himself. You know what they say about Valemen.” "And it's hot, too hot." Sparrows were less rowdy than those old men. The she-wolf was tempted to enter in a cat’s skin, like in her dream, and scratch them all.

“Hot pies! Hot pies!”, shouted a familiar voice. _Finally_ , thought Arya, and followed the invite.

The baker was fat, clean and kind, and her pies were effectively the best ones in Fishmonger Square. Unfortunately, her straw-haired son was a cunt, and pretended to be paid in advance. Arya wasn’t used to take money upon her, it was a thing she still forgot, sometimes, so she looked down at her empty hands and chewed her lips, whilst her stomach gruntled in such a way that made her repent not to have eaten when Septa Mordane had been insisting for her to eat.

 _Eat. With Sansa at my side, always weeping - and Father in a cell._ The funny thing was that all the Stark household was still in the Tower of the Hand, as if the lord of Winterfell was simply hunting somewhere with the King. Arya did her routine, like Vayon Poole and any other - dancing lessons in the morning, a simple meal and, then, her chamber. No one bothered about her, she had just to be careful about coming back in time for the evening supper.

In the net of galleries underground she used every day to sneak out, Arya hadn’t still found a passage which brought directly to the dungeons, but she wasn’t intentioned to give in, even if they had told her that father was in the tower top floor, and getting upstairs without being seen seemed an impossible task. She had Needle, though.

Her stomach roared, again. _With a full belly, I'd be more lucid._

“Take it, lad.” A muscled boy was towering on her, with a pie in his calloused hands. His nails were dirty and chewed like Arya’s, and his eyes were narrowed for the sun, and blue - not blue like Brienne’s, but in a strange way he did look like a dark-haired, foul-smelling cousin of her. Arya liked that, and took the pie. It was hot, and made her sweat even more in that terrific summer day, but it was so tasting. Delicious. 

“You’re welcome”, snorted the boy.

“Arry”, said Arya, still chewing, and a bit scrap fell on the ground. She picked up and eat it, glaring at a spotted bitch that wanted to steal it.

“You’re really starving, Arry. I’m Gendry”, he darted his eyes all around, “you shouldn’t stay in this square. See the dais, over there. It’s all ready for the traitors’ execution and the new commander of the gold cloaks seems really eager to clean the streets before the great show. Orphans included. Do you wish to end at the Wall?”

“The Wall is the shield of the Realm.”

“The Wall is simply the coldest prison of all Westeros. Full of thieves, smugglers, and worse. Someone could like your pretty face, lad, and ask no permission before using you as his… well, you know”, he reddened.

“I know that you know nothing”, Arya spat. _Uncle Benjen is First Ranger, and Jon is with him, now, and he knows a lot of things._ She kept the pie, and before leaving the square, thanked him.

In her own, very Nymeria-like, way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here my personal hero finally peeks out. Thanks for reading.


	61. Loyalty and rewards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NED'S POV

KING'S LANDING - THE RED KEEP DUNGEONS

The clasp was shaped in the form of a hand.

“I have it made in silver, because I know you’re not fond for gold.” _Lannister Gold,_ Robert meant to say. “Put on that fucking badge Ned, someone must help me ruling this damned kingdom. Please.”

 _Please?_ Ned lifted his eyes to the King, and his cold indignation melted down like summer snow in the sun. Since the last time he had seen him, Robert had lost a stone, and he was staring at his big hands as if he would gladly cut them away. “I hit him. I hit my son, Ned. You don’t know…”, he raised his head, and his blue eyes were sparkling, now filled with rage. A king’s rage. “I threw a man off my window, Ned, and I'm glad of it. Mandon Moore, one of my _loyal_ guards. He betrayed me, he did betray his king. But Joffrey…” His voice broke, and Ned’s skin went white under his friend’s grasp.

“I should leave, and bring Joff with me, and make him a warrior in the Disputed Lands. I’m sick unto death of this realm. Do you want it, Ned? Do I have to give it to Stannis and have all the whores of Westeros curse me? Renly might be such a nice king, a very elegant one, at least, for a fortnight, then Stannis would make him swallow all his silks and adorned breastplates. Do you have some wine? My throat is parched like Cersei’s cunt, the Others take her.”

“Robert, if you want me to accept that damned brooch, you must stay sober. For a while, at least. We must talk…”

“Fuck you and all your blabbing. Can’t you see? I need drinking and sleeping, not talking”, the king’s eyes were spotted with red, and dark circles shadowed them. He smelled of sweat and unrest, the flesh of his face seemed almost melting, like a wax mask. “It’s too hot, Ned. Usually I drink or have a wench, or both, and then I close my eyes and for a blessed moment I found myself somewhere else, fighting against Rhaegar at the Trident, or in a beautiful wood, and she’s there, Lyanna is often there, with me. But now I can’t see her no more. If I close my eyes, I see that freakishly big girl, Gods be good, I left her safe, asleep in her bed… she was under my roof, the king’s roof. I’m a king, damn me, don’t make a king beg, Ned. Just… don’t leave me, like Jon Arryn did.”

The wine jug was on the table, but the King never reached for it, and took the water cup his Hand had poured for him, instead.

***

Ned missed Robb, Bran and Rickon, but his thoughts ran to Jon. His Jon. To the Night Watch.

In a black cloak, Joffrey might redeem himself, but Robert was too proud, or maybe, wiser than the harsh Lord of Winterfell. The lad was only twelve, and, besides, his mother was still alive, and she had claws, long claws. They weren’t even sure it had been Joffrey to harm the girl. _A thing is sending someone else to light a fire, but poison… too complicated, too smart, for a lad of twelve. The Queen, though. Or the Kingslayer, who surely knows how to put a face._

He glanced at Robert, snoring like he had always snored after a skirmish or a training, indifferent to anything else in the world. It made no difference for the stormlander if he was on the hard ground, or in a soft bed, and Ned’s cell had a comfortable mattress, large enough for the huge man who conquered a realm for a girl, and lost the girl and any other things he loved the most.

Ned recalled the little child Robert had had from a pretty woman at the Eyrie. She was dark-haired, and wild, and she liked the big man, laughing and lifting her in his arms. _Without the Lannister woman, he might have been a better father, and a better king, maybe. Without the Lannisters, Jon Arryn would be still here, maybe,_ the northman brooded. Littlefinger was right, in the end: he was making an art of brooding.

***

“Stannis won’t be glad”, Robert said, yawning. The stinking guard made a queer face, when he saw the heavy silver hand clasp on Ned’s chest.

“Then make him your Hand. You should, he’s your brother, and a good man.”

“A just man, you mean”, Robert snorted. “He chopped off his best knight’s fingers, to show the world how much he cares for justice. But, you’re right, Ned, he will obey his king, and bring Joff safely in the deep north, the Umbers or the Karstarks will be honored to guest a prince, and the cold will froze his lion tail, and make him a stag, hopefully.”

 _Hopefully. Otherwise, the Wall isn’t that far from Karhold or Last Hearth_.

“Let’s wait for Stannis, then. And not a word”, added the King, with a smile. “Understood, guard? What’s your name?”

“Rugen, Your Grace”, the unshaven man muttered, raucous, opening another door. “He’s here.”

“Your reward, Ned. A very meager one”, laughed the King. From the feathered bed where he was seated, the Payne boy glanced up with big brown eyes and gaped. “He has been treated like a prince, hasn’t he, Rugen? You should know, Ned, I’ve never bore any ill to this lad, or the septas, just needed them to be in quiet, safe place, for a while, after the Septa's confession. The same for you. You don’t like the Spider, but sometimes he had good intuitions. You were in the wrong room, in the wrong moment, so someone was already pointing his finger against the new evil Hand and whilst I was damn worried about you, you preferred some trees to your king, and questioned all my decisions in front of Cersei, Renly and too many people. Don't do it again or I'll kick you directly to the Wall to spend your left days with that bastard of yours.” It was Ned’s turn for gaping and Robert glared at him. “For Gods’ sake, Ned, how could I ever harm the Septas, and Lonmouth’s bride especially? The man died for me at Ashford!”

“Ser Richard?”

“I truly should make Stannis my Hand, Ned. You’re the stupidest of all Hands, and bedding a Tully has made you very similar to a trout, my friend. Close your mouth, and take the lad, this prison sucks.”

He did shut his mouth, and in the slow walk till the tower where his girls were both safely dreaming, whilst the King talked about Septas, Penroses, drinking games and the proper dresses for a public execution in that fucking hot, the Hand tried to figure out how to confess to his daughters that Sansa's betrothal was gone, whilst Arya was to wed little, kind Tommen. _And what will Cat say about our tiny she-wolf becoming a princess?_ It was dark but finally the moon's face, bright and broad, peeked out from the tall girl's tower and saved him from missing a step and falling on Robert. Ned thanked her with a smile - after all, he had still time. The new arrangements must remain a secret, at least until a certain prince had put his paws beyond the Neck.


	62. The king of liars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LANN'S POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! 
> 
> Lann the clever was a thief, and a liar. He stole the gold from the sun, and the Rock from the Casterlys. 
> 
> They say he stripped naked and coated himself in butter to get into the Rock through a secret cleft. Then Lann found a maiden, Lord Casterly's daughter and heir, asleep in her bed. Nine months later, the girl gave birth to a beautiful, golden-haired child while insisting she had never slept with a man.
> 
> Probably it's only a story, probably Lann was a guard in service to House Casterly who seduced the lord's daughter and heir, and wed her, becoming the Lord of the Rock.  
> Just a tale, yet... Forewarned is forearmed. Skip this chapter, or please be kind with the storyteller, who already feels ashamed like a wretched telltale.

CASTERLY ROCK – THE HEIR'S BEDCHAMBER

The moon was white and gold, almost at her full splendor, when she disappeared from the sky, and re-appeared in his arms.

All the light had ever been invented was in the big, bright eyes before him, still heavy with sleep, mayhap still enchanted, as the fools had been singing in these long nights - too long and too warm nights.

He had thought and thought about this moment, and now he had nothing to say. He braced himself on an elbow, and waited for her to break the silence, craving to hear her voice, and yet he was afraid, terribly afraid. He was not used to have fear, but he realized he could get used to a fear like that, he desired to get used to it, night after night after night.

She glanced at him warily, and her skin turned red like an apple - he knew she was red and splotchy everywhere, yet in the moonlit the only color to survive was her color.

Blue.

Blue was _hers_ , and hers only. But he was a thief, and wanted a little spark of blue all for himself. It was a soft, clumsy blue, in the end.

“My… lord?”, she murmured, her lips aflame like the rest of her endless, freckled body.

“A lord?”, he smiled. “If it pleases my lady, I’ll be your lord.” He kissed her again, and, this time, he stole her breath, and a little scrap of her innocence, too. When he broke apart, she was flushed and panting, and her eyes shone even more.

“I-I don’t recall you, I don’t recall anything”, she managed to breeze out, after a while, trembling.

"You'd been sleeping for days, my lady. Well, a few days for you, a century for the such of me", he sniffed her, just to tickle her jaw with the point of his nose. Yet, her smell was… He sniffed her, again, this time in the alcove hidden between the earlobe and the hair, where the skin is pure and bare, until the ingrate wench pushed him brusquely away. "Do you want me to prepare a bath? There's an interesting stone tub, in the next chamber. I can brush your back, if you'll brush mine." 

“You can’t be… real”, she said, softly, as if she was speaking to herself, “I'm still sleeping and this is a dream, nought but an evil dream.”

“Evil? You wound me, my lady. Do I look that evil?” His teeth were blinding white, and his body was covered with sweat so thick and brilliant, that it seemed butter, butter on gold and flesh.

She nodded, frantically, and he couldn’t help but nuzzle into her thick neck and choke there a laugh.

“You want me to be discovered, and killed. You’re merciless, my lady. What about our children?”

Her eyes widened in amazement, and this was not fair. If the wench was intentioned to cheat, she had found her man. His lips and his tongue began tracing the ugly, red scar on her throat. She startled and quivered and her big hands grasped him, in such a tenderly rude and desperate way that his groin almost screamed for the pain, and he groaned. A soft groan, yet it went under her skin. She looked at him, frightened from her own body’s response. 

“You can’t. You can’t”, she was stammering, and trying to get back her breath. “Who are you?”

“Lann. Lann the Clever, they call me. Thief, liar and lord, if you want me to be a lord.”

Blue confusion. Blue desire. Blue fear. He could see all of them, and he giggled like a girl at her first tourney.

“Am I too ugly to be a lord, my lady?” He kissed her before she could answer, wanting to linger a bit more on those absurdly soft lips, but she hit him in the chest.

“Ouch. Maybe I’m not that clever, my lady.” The punch had been a little bit too strong to be a sign of indifference, and a little bit too soft, to be a sign of disgust. Emboldened, his fingers started following the line of her cheek, his thumb indulging itself with a pause on a smiling small scar, and then her neck, and further down, on the shivering, virtuous path leading to heaven. “See, even my fingers are dumb, please help me break this spell.”

She crushed his hand in hers. She was steel, now. Her nipples were steel, too, underneath the thin sheet. Such a wicked wench, to cause him such a pain.

“I don’t believe in magic, Lann, and you shouldn’t be here.”

“You should, instead, and I should and want be exactly here, so stop shifting and quavering and whining, ush, my lady, ush”, he annihilated her protests, suffocating them with his lips. She was strong, but he also was strong, and this time he did linger a while on, and in, that stubborn mouth of hers, and glared at the unruly wench when he suddenly broke apart. “Quiet wench, be quiet. Don't you want to wake up the children, do you? Our six beautiful children.”

“Six?”, she squeaked, and squirmed again under his weight, damn her.

“I agree. Seven sounds better.”

“I-I’m a maiden.”

“You said you recall nothing. So young and already a liar. Wed me.”

“What?”, her voice was hoarse, her lips brazenly swollen. Fuck.

“A lady weds a lord. A liar weds a liar. I’m the king of liars, you should wed me and be my queen, and since you’re a lady in your own name, I’ll be a lord, then, the lord of this beautiful castle of yours. The perfect match, I’d say, and we’re already in a bed. How and why, who cares? Say yes.”

“No.”

“ _Yes_ is the right answer. A kiss for every time you get it wrong.”

“No.”

He kissed her.

“N-.”

He kissed her, and grinned. She was stubborn past the point of decency, but she tasted really good. A bit salty, maybe, like she had just come back from a sea swim.

“Please, Lann. I-I…”

“Ush, sweet child of mine, it’s alright. I like stubborn wenches. And it’s easy to understand, even for thick-headed like you. I just claimed you as my wife, and we pledged our love with enough kisses, I daresay. Now it’s time to make another child with your astonishing eyes.”

“We have no children.”

Another _no_ , playing monsters-and-maidens among words. Sighing, he kissed her again. At least, she was delicious, and deliciously appalled. Both things were unbearable.

“If _that_ troubles you so much, I might be able to find a solution”, he cupped one of her breasts. It wasn’t that small, after all, and the realization risked to kill him. He had lost the count of how many times he had risked to die, for her fault. Why should she be always that egocentric and reckless?

She jerked free, and straddled him. “I didn't say yes”, she said, bold and shameless, pinning him to the mattress. 

“What?” His heart was broken, shattered, and the pressure of her hips was making him suffer a hellish pain. Cruel wench. Maybe she was cruel enough to tie him with a crude rope.

“I never said that word”, her voice was growing confident, now, and the hold on his wrists softened. Such a pity. She was really a child, a very tall, foolish child. It was so easy, that he almost felt guilty. Nah, that was a blatant lie, his blood was singing.

“That word? Which word, wench?”

“Yes! I never said it.”

“You did say it, just now. Such a nice word, isn’t it, wife?”

“No”, she sighed.

“This was a sigh, and every sigh means _yes_ in a bed, my lady.”

He freed his hands and pulled her close until their lips met, and he kissed her deeply, he kissed his bride, again and again, until _yes_ became the only word she could whisper, moan, or cry.

She was so good, she was made for fighting and fucking, her back arched fluidly when he closed his mouth around the tiny, pointed blossom of her breast, and her long legs were wrapped around him, tightly enough it nearly hurt, when he guided his cock in her with one, rash thrust. He waited then, afraid again, and lost himself in her eyes until she settled with the new sensation. He had to deal with a lot of unknown sensations, too. Hopes. He hoped not to have hurt her. He hoped to make it perfect, for her. He hoped... so many things that he had never hoped. Seven was really a nice number, for a start, he decided, and grinned, all sweated and slick and hungry.

Hungrier now that she was his, and she was beaming - hers was the blue, and hers was the light, too.

“Lann”, the wench begged, her fingers running through his hair, or digging into his flesh, to urge him to move with her, within her.

“Not Lann. Jaime, my name is Jaime.”

He leaned and kissed her, to prove he had already forgiven her. Only a very rude wench could frown at his groom in their wedding night, and he had warned her that he was a liar and a thief, and it wasn't his fault if she was so gently warm and wet, and he wanted her to sing for him. Such an innocent request. Just singing his name. Ja-

“Jaime.” He knew that voice, and it wasn’t her voice.

It was Cersei’s.


	63. Unwelcome visitors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JAIME'S POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Some wench, it was just some freckled wench.'

KING'S LANDING - THE RED KEEP - IN THE WENCH TOWER'S BATH

“You shouldn’t be here, Cersei.”

“ _You_ shouldn’t be here, dozing in a tub, whilst I need you the most, Jaime”, for the second time, she tossed his name away, sharply, uncarefully, looking quite a golden-and-crimson ghost, through the steam.

The water must have been warm, pleasantly – _gently –_ warm, once, but now it was cold, and the heat still running in his body was only an echo of something Jaime had lost, something he had never had. _No, that’s pure nonsense. A fool's prank._ _Obvious._ He was definitely not Lann the Clever, and _she_ wasn’t… it couldn’t have been _her_. Some wench, it was just some freckled wench. Not _the wench_.

Jaime bolted off the tub, and his twin smiled. “It seems that you need me even more than I need you, my beloved brother.”

He hastily covered himself, diverting his glance from her. Somehow, he felt guilty. He had rarely dreamed Cersei, but, still, he had never dreamed other than Cersei, or kissed other than Cersei. If that little peck had been real, nor just another absurd joke of his mind. Surely it had never happened, that night had been long, and tiring. _I kissed no ugly wenches, why should I ever have, when I can have a queen, instead. A beautiful queen. Cersei is all I ever loved and desired,_ Jaime decided, and dared to look up at her.

His sister was really gorgeous. Her shining hair had been combed in a very elaborated way, and she had rubies, not flowers, in it. Gold and gems sang lustily along her silk gown. How she glimmered.

“Are you dressing in black? Gods save you, brother, passing from white to black, like that mossback of your Lord Commander has always been wishing since you thrusted your blade in Aerys' back.”

“I didn’t hit Aerys in the back, Cersei…”

“Oh, I really don’t care if you did. That was your finest act.”

He stopped dressing himself, and raised on his feet, wearing only his shirt. He stepped towards his twin, she had never been so beautiful - and so quick and curt, in denying him an embrace.

“You’re still soaked wet like an old cat. Put on your breeches, rather, and hide the shame of your lonely friend.”

“Cersei… we were talking…”

“About the Mad King, yes. The proof you can be so bold, and good, when you listen to someone wiser than you”, she smiled, again. The smile didn’t reach her eyes. Jaime wondered if it had ever reached her eyes. He didn’t have an answer and he couldn’t help but shiver, violently. “Listen to me, now, Jaime, my shining knight”, Cersei lowered her velvety voice. “It’s Robert. He hit Joffrey, he ruined his perfect mouth, I thought he was going to kill him…”

“Why?”

“Why? He’s growing mad, like Aerys, only stronger. You know, he hates me, his brothers hate me, Stannis would gladly have me whipped and dragged into streets only because I was no maiden when I wed, Renly conspires to put some whore in the drunkard's bed and get rid of me…”

“Joffrey. What the fuck did he do, now?”

“Jaime”, she was horrified, and indignant. “Joffrey did only what you were supposed to do in his place. Protecting Lannnisters' name. Ser Mandon was a stupid choice, and he had been caught by someone at the harbor. A pity he’s dead.”

 _So, it’s all true. It was Robert who shoved him onto the spikes. He did well._ “Yes, a pity. I would have thanked him gladly”, he smirked, coldly. _I have still Joffrey to thank, at least._

“Now I recognize you, brother”, Cersei smirked with him, just a bit more elegantly. “My brave, little brother. Be more careful, next time, and act only when I tell you to act. However, I managed to recuperate your dagger.”

“My dagger?”

“The one with a row of lionheads and rubies. A gift from Father for the tourney…”

“… in which I was unhorsed by ser Loras.” The only though made him anger again. Lord Tywin had come to King’s Landing with a large retinue, and he had ended in the dirt. Then his father had brought Cersei to the Rock, while he was forced in King’s Landing, waiting for the king outside a whorehouse, or outside Jon Arryn’s door, during the long hours the toothless man took to die. _I’m sick of wasting my time watching at restless stags or stubborn wenches, I’m… a fool._ “The dagger, Cersei. Where did you find it?”

“Where you left it”, she murmured, annoyed. “In Senelle’s chest. Next time ask, before using one of my maids, she was good in sewing, the blond little thing.”

She moved towards the door, recoiling on the marble floor in her embroidered slippers. “It’s late, and I’m supposed to participate to ser Moore’s burials. Just a little ceremony. His rests have been burned, they stank horribly, they say. No wonder, it’s too hot. The King is not coming, luckily, and you’ve been exonerated, too. He wants you to vigil on his stupid ward, so you can rest another bit.”

Jaime tried to reach her. He needed her to listen, and understand. In his haste, his bare foot slipped on a puddle of water, and he found himself on a knee. It ached, but her mocking smile ached worse. She had lifted no finger to prevent him from falling, nor she moved now to help him raising. _It's so... Cersei._

_Cersei, my fair Cersei. It rhymes with mopsey._

“I told you to put on your breeches, and be more careful, brother”, the queen teased him. “I need you whole, my golden fool.” She was in front of the door when she turned back, her perfect lips curved in a wicked grin. “I almost forgot. Tommen wants me to tell you a thing.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow, stunned. “Tommen?”

“Such a nice lion cub, that one. He surprised me this time”, she sneered. “He wants you to throw a basin of water at the sleeping beauty’s face. He insisted it can wake her. Isn’t that a nice idea? You should do it, or toss her in this lovely tub, she must be even uglier, all wet and…” 

_Warm. Wet and gently warm._

“… splotched. If she awakes, she’ll be a dumb, oblivious and useless thing, like the Stark pup. They say he has opened his eyes, but he recalls nothing of the accident, luckily for him. If the freak drowns in the tub, well, better for her and her sullen father, he will wed again and have some decent heir, maybe. An heir with broad shoulders and a matching cock, hopefully."

Laughing softly, she left and Jaime’s knee was already purple, and his skin was clamming cold. He angrily completed to dress himself, and came back to the wench, with long, hurried strides. _It hasn’t been Cersei,_ he pondered _, and Joffrey is far too stupid. Someone else, someone who wanted to seize her. But why?_

He glared at Addam and waved a hand in the direction of the skinniest and most disoriented squire of all Westeros, and brought noisily a chair to Brienne’s side.

It didn’t bother her, she was still asleep - the unforgivable, disrespectful maid. The noise bothered Lord Selwyn and his unwelcome guest, for a certainty.

Jaime cast his best smile for the latter, only for him, the fucking Stark of Winterfell . A due courtesy to the man who had paid so much attention to him, and to the wench, before a certain red house. 


	64. The little bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SANSA'S POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'She made out a lady-like sigh, but it sounded like a chirp. A very common chirp.'

Jeyne Poole greeted her kindly, when the little lady retired in her bedchamber. Jeyne was always gentle with her, and also Septa Mordane, and her father had kissed Sansa's brow before leaving the Tower of the Hand for important duties. No one had been rude, or even cold, with her, except for Arya, but Arya was Arya, and she could deal with her sister. She couldn't climb the invisible wall between her and all the others, instead, the wall which had been raised in the night she had spent in the Queen's own room.

The green dress she had been gifted, it was still on a stool - a sparrow pecking at one of its tiny pearls. _Be careful, little bird_ , she thought, _it looks like a tear of sugar, but it's not sweet, not at all._ The sparrow tilted his head and glanced at her with bottom eyes so trusty, that Sansa dared to touch him, just a quick brush, and her lips found again the shape of a smile, when he decided to stay, and pecked gently at her palm. For once, she didn't cry herself to sleep. She simply brushed her brow in the point _he_ had kissed her, and surrendered to the hotness of the day, and to the dream of the winged knight who would fly her away from here, from everything.

***

The city was crowded but silent, no one to be seen in the streets, because of the sun. It was merciless. She needed to rest, to find soon a shadowed place, and saw a tower, slender and tall, defying the sullen sea, and she flapped her way inside. The room was large, and richly furnished. Sansa run feverishly her tiny eyes until she found a mirror - she had to know. _Oh. I look every inch a sparrow._ So disappointing. She had hoped for the colors and the gorgeousness of a rare bird from Essos, or even more far. She made out a lady-like sigh, but it sounded like a chirp. A very common chirp.

No wonder no one noticed the ugly bird. Not even Sansa's father, or the white-haired knight seated beside him.

“Lord Rickard and I fought side-to-side in the War of Ninepenny Kings, his son will be always welcome under my roof, no matter what a man the such of you can say”, the old one was saying.

An handsome man in orange-and-grey clothes narrowed his eyes at the words, but the Queen's brother just laughed. A dry laugh. She could see his curls shining, it was such a vivid dream. “The king's roof, I daresay”, the kingsguard replied. “The same king who pardoned me for slaying Aerys and put your honorable guest in a cell. I still wonder why, or why he's here, now. Wishing to end your work, my Lord Hand?”

The dusky harpist stopped playing, when the chair fell on the beautiful marble floor with such a frightening sound. Sansa's tiny heart risked to burst, but she kept her glance on the Lord of Winterfell, now on his feet, fists in place of his kind hands. She had rarely seen him enraged – it looked odd, in a way, his was a cold rage, where the king's one had been all fire, and broken things. A lad of about Sansa's age ran toward a huge bed, with a wonderful canopy in brocade, all embroidered in cloth-of-silver, and she spread her wings to land on the carved headboard.

She was there, tall and white as a weirwood tree. _Brienne, you've changed. You look so... frail. A shy duckling._

“Take your quarrels elsewhere, not here, not at my daughter's presence.”

Now that the white-haired man had jerked on his feet, Sansa could see how tall he was. The Stark of Winterfell seemed a very small wolf, by comparison. But he was the Hand, the Hand of an awful King, but, still, any man must respect him, and the Kingslayer should have bowed, and begged for the mighty Hand's comprehension, and Sansa's father was a good man and he would have understood, forgiven. It was plain even for a young girl like her that ser Jaime was in droll state of mind, feigning indifference whilst his emerald eyes turned any second to the maid, to her long hair, to the stitched wound on her face, even to her hands, which were really too big. Maybe bigger than her own lord Father's. _They must look ridiculous in silken gloves, and how is a true lady supposed to survive in this tragic world without at least a pair of candid, immaculate silken gloves?_

That would have been such a romantic dream, in the end, if not for this kind of details.

Ser Jaime never bowed, as an example. He remained still, in his tall chair, and grinned. “Wherever, and whenever you'll prefer, lord Stark.” He pretended to look at the singer, and stole another, brief, longing glance to Brienne's pale lips. “Beth, please, there's a song... about a proud lord, in a coat of red. I wonder if you do know it.”

“Oh, every one knows it, ser”, the old, lovely woman replied and began. She had a sad, enchanting voice. Sansa had never heard the song, it was rare for a singer to arrive to Winterfell. It was a nice song, maybe with too many lions for her father's taste, that must be the reason he left in such a haste.

“You stay, lad”, ser Jaime commanded, and the brown-haired child looked like a sparrow, him too, but remained. Sansa could not say what was passing in the giant man's mind, instead. Maybe he was hoping the rains will wash the hot away from King's Landing, like they had washed away the proud lord's arrogance in the song. Castamere. A name she had never heard, but, of course, it was a dream, and dreams are weird. Maester Luwin once had explained her that dreams were only the distorted reflection of true life, but she had never believed him. Sansa wasn't a sparrow, of course not, she was a lady, and a lady's daughter.

“You're your father's son”, said flatly the Lord of Tarth, when the song came to an end.

“I am”, admitted ser Jaime of the kingsguard, facing the massive man with an unreadable expression. “It is known. It's also known that it was my lord father to knight the mad king, and, recently, I was told it was you who knighted my father, so I presume you know him very well. May I ask who gave you the spurs, my lord?”

All the people in the room tensed, but not the Evenstar. “It was ser Barristan.”

“At Summerhall.”

 _That_ made the huge lord freeze. “How did you know it?”

“I didn't. Now I do.”

The Evenstar left, his face still like a frozen lake, and the knight with long, straight hair turned towards the Kingslayer. “Jaime, he's her father, you shouldn't have... he did speak out of grief.”

“Oh, the _such of me_ don't care about grieving fathers, or boring wenches. Lad, quick, bring me that jug of water. Put some honey inside it. More honey, you idiot, it's the only thing she swallows, the Other takes her stubborness. Addam, help me with these pillows, a _lady_ must be properly seated to break her fast. Damn, if she's heavy. Where's Strongboar when I need him? Where's Tyrion's answer to my letter? The Others take him, too.”

“Jaime...”

“I won't call for a serving girl. They give up too early, and she starves. The lady is as lazy as she's ugly, past the point of any maid's patience. See? She wants me to yield, the foolish wench. Have I ever lost a fight, a real fight, Addam?”

“Never.” The knight was more or less tall like ser Jaime's, but he looked smaller, and uncomfortable in his own costly clothes. “I was wondering, Jaime... how did you know about Summerhall?”

The kingsguard raised a brow, and wiped Brienne's chin with an embroidered tissue. “The wench's father is half a dragon, and the grandson of ser Duncan the Tall of the kingsguard. I just guessed he could have been there, with his grandfather and the fucking Targs. Whilst it is known that Ser Barristan was the first to bring help to the survivors, after the fire. They say the flames were so high they could be seen even from Harvest Hall.”

“Yes, it is known”, ser Addam repeated ironically, shacking his copper head, quite incredulous. “Gods, you read a lot, you _think_... Shall I call you Lann the clever from now on?”

She chirped, as the spoon fell to the ground. “There's a sparrow.” Ser Jaime's voice was dull, his face tight. “A dead one”, he added, and Sansa got vexed. She wasn't a meager sparrow, after all. She was a very pretty one, her feathers more brown and brilliant than the average. _Mirrors don't lie._ In the mirror, she also saw two eyes like pots of melted gold, and a black, mangy tail.

***

Sansa woke up screaming, and covered with sweat, ad she ran to Arya's room, being so pleased her sister hadn't barred the door, for a change.

“Stop hugging me, Sansa”, the little she-wolf protested, smelling good like a pie. “I was having a nice dream.”

“A dream?”, she asked, tucking her nose in Arya's worn, caked shirt.

“A strange one. I was hunting, hunting a sparrow. A very pretty, and very stupid one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit long, I fear. Thanks for your patience!


	65. Six maidens in a pool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ARYA'S POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Lovestruck, at first sight, can you imagine, wench?'

Sansa was finally calm and quiet, as if doing some needlework in the half-light filtrating through the shuttered window could be really be pleasant, and relaxing. It was like having Old Nan back at her side, only less wrinkled and ugly. The head was the same, a oval vase filled with stories and songs – only old Nan's were surely more interesting.

Now Arya wanted only to close her eyes. It was really too warm to venture outside.

She liked sleeping, and even purring a bit, if the wretched thing deigned himself to scratch his only left ear. Now he was too busy keeping Brienne well straight on the pillows, as if the maid could really appreciate the drawings' vivid colors or the tale he was reading. _Reading. He reads like he smiles, quickly and in a sharp, insensate way._ Yet the kingslayers's voice was quite a lullaby, decisively better than that dusky woman – she was so boring, with all her knights and maidens fair.

“And, then, all of sudden, Florian saw six maidens in a pool, and fell in love with the fairest of them all, and wed her. End of the story. Such a stupid one. Lovestruck, at first sight, can you imagine, wench? Well, I mean, she was young and beautiful, and naked... of course, Pod, don't make that face, Jonquil must have been naked, she was having a bath. Who illustrated the tale was a priggish man, no one bathes keeping his clothes on.”

“S-ser, Jonquil was a m-m-m-aiden...”

“...and highborn. Not a fool. Florian was the fool, and the knight. He bore a famous sword, valyrian steel. They should have spend more words describing his blade, than her skin. _White and pure like a lily_ and so on, no freckles, at all. Sorry, wench, princesses and damsels in distress don't have freckles, it is...”

“...known. I wonder why. Freckles have their enthusiasts, it seems.”

“Addam. You should shut your bloody mouth, from time to time.”

“Jaime. You should do the same. From time to time.”

“S-s-sers? S-s-s-ome wine, or w-w-w-w...”

“Water, with lemon. And ice, Pod. Are you thirsty, wench? Bring a cup for the lady and some meat for the cat, too, nothing for ser Marbrand, and a new tongue for you. A tongue of some utility, this time.”

That was brilliant. She was hungry, and the squire's stutter hit sorely her nerves. Arya was still angered with him, besides. He had impeded her to close her claws on the little bird, the stupid, romantic lad with heart-shaped eyes.


	66. Drink me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BRIENNE'S POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'The child took just a small sip, and the painted walls around her blurred like the stranger's face had blurred and changed before her.'

EVENFALL'S HALL - BRIENNE'S CHAMBER

The milk was thick but sweet. It was the potion to make it so sweet. She liked it, and swallowed it in a breath for her good lord Father's sake, as Septa Roelle always said.

 _Drink, child, for your good lord Father's sake. You won't have that evil dream again. You won't even remember it, tomorrow_.

_Sleep, child, for your good lord Father's sake. Sleep is the greatest healer. You wont' cough that badly, tomorrow._

_Ush, child, for your good lord Father's sake. It was only a dream, a fever dream. Fever will break tomorrow._

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

The fever broke, the coughing passed, the dream remained, and it looked as if it was there to stay. Forever. With his odd accent and odder hair.

Because the man was not a dream. Brienne had told them, and told. Ser Goodwin, who had been the first to arrive to the Waterfalls, carried her away, and said her to hold on, and nothing else. The nurse undressed her, and wept. Septa Roelle hid her tears, and called for the Septon. The Septon prayed and anointed her with a strange unguent, whilst the young maester visited her with a chalk face. The old maester sniffed and prepared potions, for her lungs, for her dreams. Ser Goodwin came back and looked even more anguished, and she never lifted her eyes to Father's face.

She couldn't.

She couldn't find the right words to tell him she was sorry of being there instead of Gal - then the fever came and washed her away, like a blessing.

***

In the morning, they had allowed her to move her first steps, all by herself. Brienne was a bit uncertain and trembling, but she was really getting better, she would soon be fully recovered, able to wait Father on the docks, at his return.

The Septa smiled and helped the old maester to reach his room. The young one was on Father's ship. She was alone, and she picked up the tiny bottle that they had forgotten. She wanted only to look at it. She liked the ink signs on it, and called for Gal. He liked reading for her.

Brienne even turned towards the door to see him enter, with his graceful, long strides. She was such a stupid, and the dark glass reflected her stupid, ugly face. She was really ugly.

The stranger at the waterfalls was handsome, instead. In truth, his first face had been plain, it was only his second face to be handsome, even if his hair had become very odd. Half white, and half red.

The potion was all white - and it was so sweet. The child took just a small sip, and the painted walls around her blurred like the stranger's face had blurred and changed before her. Another sip, even smaller. Or maybe two, she wasn't sure. Brienne looked bewildered at the dark fragments of glass on the floor. She didn't recall when the bottle had fallen. She didn't even recall when she had fallen.

It wasn't important, Gal was there, smiling, ready to read for her. He liked reading for her. 

_Jonquil and Florian_ , she hoped, _or Jenny of Oldstones_. They both liked so much Jenny, they had her same freckles.


	67. Almost a man grown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BRAN'S POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Even the hero was small - not small as a cat, obviously.  
> Bran's eyelids fell shut before he could hear how the hero survived. If he survived.'

The potion was thick and chalky, but sweet. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't, but Bran emptied the cup all the same, hoping it would be a good time, this time, with no dreams. He was sick of dreams, and of letters that didn't arrive.

Robb had wrote to their father, and to Jon, but no crow had come back. Maybe it was for the better. Bran had grown sick of crows, too. The _clink, clink, clink_ of old Nan's needles ought make him cry, if not for the sweetmilk. He stared at the ceiling, and he saw the spiders, white with azure reflections, entering from the open window with a gust of warm wind, and looking at him with a thousand round eyes of ice and dread - only they were smaller than in the shrunken woman's tale, no bigger than cats. Even the hero was small - not small as a cat, obviously.

Bran's eyelids fell shut before he could hear how the hero survived. _If_ he survived.

***

The first child was with child, and she was beautiful. Fire roared all around her, and in her violet eyes.

The second was a gargoyle's child, her features perfectly chiseled in a hard, grey stone. The sculptor and painter had been so skilled that half her face seemed made of flesh, of true, soft pink flesh. Even the tears seemed real, and not rain drops.

The third child was blue, or maybe it was only the water to be blue. No one might have such eyes. For an instant, Bran thought she could breath water, but she couldn't. 

***

He awakened at the sound of Grey Wind and Shaggydog owling at the sun. _They're claiming the snow back, it's far too warm for their thick furs. I'll set for a good, heavy rain_ , Bran considered, and for a moment Summer's licking his cheek and the absurd image of Winterfell underwater almost made him dizzy with fun. Then he tried to put his leg on the side of the bed, to climb down and have a piss, and the leg remained still.

***

“A letter, from the Wall. For you.” Robb was beaming.

It wasn't only a letter. It was a promise. Riding, again. He had never seen a saddle so wonderfully drawn, and maester Luwin confirmed that it would work. When he entwined his fingers to Bran's, Robb was no more Lord Robb, he was just a boy with auburn hair, imagining an adventure, a ride to the Wall, only him and Bran. Why not? He was almost a man grown, his eight name day had come and passed.

The little man ate willingly his sweetened porridge and felt a bit guilty, to be so happy. In the letter, Jon mentioned a girl, a girl who was sleeping in a tower, waiting for someone to save her. Maester Luwin has stroked his grey beard sadly, when Robb had asked him if he knew some remedy to poison.

"If I knew a cure, I would have already answered to the crow that came from King's Landing."

“But there must be a way. Sweetsleep is innocuous, even Bran takes it, from time to time”, insisted the lord-like version of his brother. _Quite king-like, or Sansa-like,_ Bran sneered, attracting the glances of all people seated at the huge table. In truth, Rickon was no seated, he was more _grabbed_ to the chair, in a very unstable way, like a direwolf suddenly put on a tree branch.

He shrugged, and looked down to the porridge. “Old Nan might suggest a remedy. The old one.” Bran didn't really mean the words, he had to babble something to fill the silence. He didn't truly deserve Robb's shocked face.

It took another embarassing, silent while, but Rickon got it, too. He was smart for his age, and wild. The child jumped down the chair and cheered. “Shaggy would like it. But you won't steal the entrails hanging from the trees, will you, Shaggy?”

***

 _Next time I'll keep my mouth well shut,_ promised Bran to himself, and tried to listen carefully to maester Luwin, but it's was all so useless, he already knew that blood sacrifices or human pyres were part of an ancient, cruel world that would never come back. He let his mind run to the horse they would train for the new saddle, for him. A young mare, probably.

“I'll call her Dancer”, he said aloud, and the Maester gave in a sigh. “Sorry. Hope the lady will awake soon”, Bran added, blushing as a thief caught while stealing. “I did awake, and I'll be riding soon, again.”

Then the Maester did something really unexpected. He wrapped Bran in his arms, and held him with an uncommon force for an old man. It was too warm, and they both needed a bath, but the lad decided he did no care, not at all.


	68. Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TYRION'S POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion hid well his surprise. “A maiden at the Wall. Curious.”

CASTLE BLACK - THE MAESTER'S KEEP

> _My dear Jaime,_
> 
> _how are you? Here at the Wall it's all fine, just a bit boring._

Throats and bellies, slid open. Nice bloody things, hanging on smiling trees. Tyrion was beginning to think that the First Men liked blood more than Targaryens did.

“Ice and blood”, he said, ironically, rolling the scroll and glancing at Jon with his mismatched eyes. The lad glanced back at him with the usual expression he wore when he was ruminating hard about something... looking truly a Stark, and even more a stupid. 

> _Luckily, I've made a few new friends. The first is Jon who knows how to deal with a huge direwolf and ...well, I suppose that dealing with a direwolf can be enough, for a lad that green._

Pypar chocked a laugh, when Grenn came back with the same tome he had been instructed to return to Clydas. 

> _Then there's Pypar, or Pyp._ _A nice guy, very talented with dialects and voices - seems also clever, compared to Jon. A genius, compared to Grenn, who is an excellent dwarf-bearer, maybe a bit too noisy._

Grenn was arguing with Pyp, and losing. Again. 

> _With Maester Aemon's guide, we've been ravaging old books and dusty scrolls, or parchments so ancient that crumble in a thousand pieces as soon as you try to read them._
> 
> _Until now, we found out that_ _people like butchering other people in the name of some God even here in the North. I spare you the details, I don't think they might be of some use for your wench. Still, if you'd like to delight yourself with a human sacrifice to a tree, I remind you that royal blood is considered by all sources very, very valuable and our sweet sister can be soooooo royal, sometimes._

“Lord Tyrion?”, the sly steward begun, interrupting Tyrion's thoughts. How he hated that man and his boils.

“If is still ser Thorne complaining for the lads being here instead than in the yard...”

“No, no. It's the Lord Commander. Ranger Tarth has just arrived from the Shadow Tower.”

The Imp jumped down his stool, and the direwolf growled at him. One of his silent, yet terribly clear, growl. The beast was definitely stupid like his master, only red-eyed, and very, very big.

Ser Endrew was blue-eyed, instead, but, still, he was very, very big, and stupidly stubborn. He paid Tyrion a quick, well-mannered homage, and said nothing of interesting about Tarth and the maid.

The Imp threw the dice. “The sad fate of second sons, ser”, he laughed, a bit cautiously, “Being here at the Wall, instead of being still in the South, drinking good wine.”

“I’m a third son”, the huge man replied, with no hint of envy, or old bitterness. “And you’re drinking well enough even here, my lord.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “This one is dirty water, I fear.” It was truly a shitty wine, but he dried the cup all the same. “In the honor of the brother you lost, ser.”

“Brothers”, the man finally took a sip of wine with him. “We were four brothers, and a sister. She was the youngest.”

Tyrion blinked. “Lord Selwyn is not the firstborn.” The Imp had often good intuitions, and he was right even now.

“He isn’t. He’s the fourth son, and my twin.” This time the old ranger smiled, a fond smile. “I love my brother, and also my niece, even if I met her only once.”

“In Tarth?”

“No, at Eastwatch-by-the-sea.”

Tyrion hid well his surprise. “A maiden at the Wall. Curious.”

“A child, you mean. She was eleven, but taller than…”

“…a dwarf. It’s not such a marvel. Even my nephew Joffrey is taller than me.”

“Taller than Cotter Pyke, the Commander of Eastwatch, I was saying.” _Over six feet of legs, muscles, horse teeth and freckles, wrote Jaime._ “A sweet girl, very shy and skilled with her longbow”, added ser Endrew, and his eyes darkened with concern. They seemed almost purple, now.

“Her longbow?”, echoed Tyrion, like a pretty talking bird.

“She’s a Tarth”, replied proudly the man, as if his niece had come into the world shouting a war cry, armed and ready for a battle.“And as every Tarth, she learned very early to navigate”, the man added, and raised on his feet. “With your leave, my lord, I’ve some things to arrange before the next ranging.”

“A ranging? Are you going to look for Benjen Stark and his group?”

The giant shook his head, and begun climbing down the stairs. “Too much time has passed. It’s simply …too warm, the maester is worried, and the lord Commander wants me and my brothers discover if something strange is happening beyond the Wall. Hope this will remain a secret.”

“I’m a very discreet man. Small and discreet.” Tyrion was grateful that the ranger was walking slowly enough not to be left behind, yet he was already panting a bit. “About your brother’s only daughter…”

“She’s the fourth of four children, and the only left”, the old man broke in, and this time his voice was tinged in the color of pain. “I hope she will recover soon.” They had come outside and ser Endrew stared at the magnificent mirror of ice and blood, weeping in the mild sunset. “She must.” He added, looking terribly worried, almost frightened, now.

“Because she’s more than the heir to a beautiful island, isn’t she?”

It was as the giant had been slapped by the dwarf. He froze, and looked at him, and Tyrion found the tall man’s eyes disquieting pale. “She’s the next Evenstar, the first light in the night... sometimes, the only light left. And, as I already told you, she’s a kind girl and I’m very fond of her, so you will understand if I won’t allow Lord Tywin’s discreet son stick his fucking nose under my niece’s gown. Have a nice evening, my lord.”

> _Re-thinking about blood sacrifices, my dear Jaime, I doubt Cersei can help. She lacks a bit the 'human' component of the trick._
> 
> _I also doubt the Faith will approve. The High Septon is such a holy man, who love children very much and whip them only when they dare to escape him._
> 
> _So, I have no choice but going on with my studies._
> 
> _On the field._
> 
> _I forgot to mention you about my last, good friend, ser Endrew Tarth. He looked so eager to show me and the lads how beautiful are the lands beyond the Wall, that I couldn't refuse to take part to the next ranging. Well, in truth, he didn't explicitly invite me and the guys to follow him - he's very shy, like his sweet sweet sweet niece - but I'm sure he will very happy to see us that soon. And the lads are so excited to have an adventure..._
> 
> _I don't think I'll be brave enough to send you this letter, Jaime, but if I'll change my mind or if I won't come back, please tell Addam Marbrand or Lyle Crakehall that I've found a few guys who deserve better than to spend their lives at the end of this fucking world. Gods, they're still maidens, all the three!_
> 
> _Can't ask father, not if I end in snark's belly, and I don't remember well, but I may have made a couple of promises to the lads... They could come out good knights, in the end. Weird. With ears too large, a head too thick or with a natural talent for brooding. But good._
> 
> _Take care of you and your wench. I do hope she will recover, in a way or another. I really do._
> 
> _A kiss to Myrci, and tell Tom that Seasmoke would be a nice name for a grey kitten. ~~Balerion~~ The Cannibal for a black one, and Tessarion for a lovely she-cat with white fur and blue eyes. _
> 
> _Your brother,_
> 
> _Tyrion - the tallest Lannister (beyond the Wall) ever_
> 
> _I warn you that your lady is very skilled with a longbow, so hold your tongue, if you won't end like a beautiful pincushion. And she had brothers or sisters, or both._
> 
> _Even her father is only the fourth child. Be careful with the Evenstar. Somehow, he had managed to have his own twin to don a stupid cloak and give up to his castle, and I'm pretty sure golden curls and sex weren't involved._
> 
> _However, ask Pycelle for more information, or lord Rosby -he has an insane passion for lineages and so on._


	69. The holy man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CERSEI'S POV

THE GREAT SEPT OF BAELOR -THE HIGH SEPTON'S ROOM

Her eyes flashed green on the gold and crystal crown, posed on a velvet cushion.

“You’ll certainly wear it tomorrow, Your Holiness”, she said, smiling a respectful smile. By right, the High Septon should have met the Queen on the steps of the Great Sept, wearing his finest rags and with the crown upon his grey head. Yet, it probably was too warm even for showing some decency. 

“Your Grace, I even doubt I’ll take part to the execution. Janos Slynt is just a briber, in the end, whilst the others are pit fighters, murderers and people who lost long time ago the path of grace”, replied the fat man, sweating heavily notwithstanding the two children waving a fan bigger than them, made of feathers in all the rainbow shades. 

_Slynt is nought but a butcher’s son, you mean, and you've been eating too much in the last years to move your giant arse._ The Queen took a sip of the iced milk he had offered her, and found it horribly sweet, like the glutton’s perfume. “A briber”, she repeated. “Yes, Slynt betrayed the King's trust, taking bribes, selling positions and promotions. Lord Arryn, our late Hand, was about reconsidering his appointment when he suddenly died, and, then, all the gold cloaks commander’s iniquities came into light when the King’s ward decided to venture alone in the city at night...”

His High Holiness rolled his eyes, and made a promising _tsk-tsk_ sound. "I was told the lady was with her father..."

“Of course, the Evenstar ran after her, later... I beg you, don’t judge the Maid of Tarth so harshly… She’s such a sweet, helpless girl, coming from a peaceful island where nothing of bad ever happens. The Gods sent Ser Jaime of the kingsguard to rescue her, and ser Jacelyn Bywater helped him cleaning the streets, finding out all Slynt’s corruption.”

“The traitor. He gladly closed both his eyes to the growing immorality of that part of the city, preferring the gold coming from the fighting pits to his duty. It was his fault, in the end, if the Evenstar and his daughter risked their lives. I pray, pray every day for the poor girl. A sad, unforgivable mistake, made by a Septa.”

“Unforgivable, yes, but… a mistake? Your burden is so heavy, Your Holiness.” She waved a jeweled hand and the children hurried away, with eyes as large as plates.

“Your Grace?”, the grey-haired man looked bewildered.

“You don’t have to be afraid. The King is a just man, and he won’t deny justice to his beloved ward, and to her lord Father, not even to spare his own brother.”

“Lord Renly?” The High Septon’s triple chin wobbled as he gaped at the Queen. “Your Grace, I really can’t understand…”

“No need to add anything. I know that you only want to defend the poor Septa, she has been deceived, for sure, persuaded to do something she didn’t want, and then to say a lie, like that guy… well, more a child than a guy, fair haired, lovely to look upon, though he has freckles… the youngest of ser Hetherspoon’s sons”, she added, observing the man going pale as his robe. “You were right to have him whipped, a liar must always be punished, and he’s no more than the last whelp of a landed knight. Yet, I took pity of the lad, and brought him back in King's Landing, in loving memory of his sister Melara, whom he had never seen, because she unluckily died as a girl, at the Rock.”

“I never touched the lad. Never.”

“Never. I know." _Nor I ever kissed my twin in a way more than brotherly._ The only thought let Cersei struck with desire, and anger. Jaime had been really annoying, since the accident in Winterfell. As if it was her fault if scheming children liked falling from a tower, or into a well. "You’re a holy man", the Queen went on, swallowing another sip of the disgusting milk, "and the Crone herself will lead you asking for the all truth, tomorrow, in front of the King, the highborns and the smallfolk.”

She did smile. The old man didn't. 

"I-I’ll ask for the truth. The truth is the only light in the darkness, says the Seven-Pointed Star… only, Your Grace, the warmth dull my wits and senses…”

Cersei needed all her patience, then, to remind the holy man the truth, all the truth. _Truth is Light, and Light is Truth_ , said another passage of the Seven-Pointed Star, and soon Renly would find it effectively blinding.


	70. The crippled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SER BARRISTAN'S POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The song? Which song?”, ser Barristan blurted out.

KING'S LANDING - THE RED KEEP - THE WHITE SWORD TOWER

Ser Arys’ face was pale, his eyes still feverish, and restless.

“Sometimes he speaks. He dreams”, said the northman. “He asks for the queen, and I know that it can seem absurd, but it’s another queen, not the one who came to Winterfell.”

The Lord Commander thanked with a nod the bearded man, and left, hoping he was right. Porther was his name, the lord Hand had recognized him as one of his own household, when he had come visiting the kingsguard, yet he had permitted the strange man to remain, with ser Arys and the always attending archer. Nobody seemed intentioned to claim back the red-haired guy and his witty, brazen tongue.

As soon as ser Barristan took one foot in his apartments, someone knocked. It was the new commander of the gold cloaks.

“Ser Jacelyn”, he said, resigned, making room for the knight.

“Ser Barristan.” The man stared nervously at the hangings and draperies on the wall, all white. “The king, I tried to warn him, but he doesn’t want to listen. The execution must be deferred, or held in another place."

The same advice given by the Hand, but King Robert was irremovable, and he was right about it. Justice was needed, and the sooner, the better. The city was boiling like a pot of stew.

"It’s …the hot", ser Jacelyn went on, "only yestermorn a baker collapsed dead, other women and an old sailor fainted, and this only at the Mud Gate. The sun is unbearable, fruits and vegetables rot in the carts before arriving in the city, even the fishmarket has been closed, and the smallfolk is starved, and angry.”

“I know. Her Grace Queen Cersei and other nobles will provide chests of bread, for the poor ones.” 

“Is that wise?”, the seasoned warrior went red and began scratching the false hand strapped to his right wrist. “I mean, it would be better, maybe, if…”

“…meat and mead would be offered in many points of the city, far from Fishmonger square and the execution”, concluded ser Barristan. Ironhand was a shrewd choice to command the City Watch. A good man, brave and even cunning. Yet, he knew nothing about the court, and about the Lannister Queen, in particular. “It’s not up to us to decide, ser.”

“Forgive me if I insist, the people, gathered all together… it’s a madness. Last night … Brawls, everywhere, a big one in the Street of Flour where bakeries were put at risk, at least four stabbings, one rape and a beggar brother howling to the moon from the ruins near River Row. My men are few and exhausted, and I lack officers, half of them are in the dark cells with Slynt, right now.”

“Would you prefer them free, to collect money from pits fighters and murderers?” He had been too sharp, and unfair. He hadn’t been sleeping too much in the last days. “I apologize, ser Jacelyn. I lack of men, too. With Ser Mandon dead, ser Arys abed and ser Jaime at the lady’s side...”

Ser Barristan didn't end the sentence, his thoughts running on ser Boros the Belly. The man was a coward, he knew, while ser Meryn was... ser Meryn. Ser Porther was a decent knight - if only he had been a bit taller and more skilled. The Lord Commander sensed a wave of sympathy coming from the other commander, mixed with a renewed worry in his lowered voice.

“I hoped that ser Jaime would have escorted the King and the Queen, on the morrow. It may help, a bit, with the crowd.”

“Lord Renly will be present, and the lady’s father”, he replied, confident. The king’s brother had a strange charm on the crowds, whilst the Kingslayer… _Well, no one in King’s Landing will ever forget lord Tywin’s sack of the city_.

“Of course, the Lord of Storm’s End is well loved, and the Evenstar… but you know, ser, the song…”

“The song? Which song?”, ser Barristan blurted out.

“A song. Nothing of important”, ser Jacelyn cut, looking down at his boots. “Just… make sure the princes and the Hand’s daughters will stay in the Red Keep, I beg you, ser.”


	71. Let them eat cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ARYA'S POV

KING'S LANDING - FISHMONGER SQUARE

The loaf was stale, and it itched her tongue and her palate.

“Bad choice, the Queen’s bread.”, said a known voice, from her left.

 _The Queen’s bread?_ Arya spat immediately the bite to the ground, and still felt her mouth sour.

“It’s mixed with ashes, or chalk, for all I know. To spare the flour”, added the baker’s son, the one so wary he wanted always to be paid in advance.

“Then why you’re eating it?”, Arya asked, giving her loaf to him. The straw-haired boy took it with no hesitation.

“I’m hungry”, he replied, chewing and lowering his eyes. “They stole me the cart, and in Flea Botton they stole me even the shoes.”

 _Use your eyes_ , Syrio repeated her every morning, and it seemed a good advice, even if the tale of the fat yellow cat, well, that was surely a tale - the first sword of Bravoos had still something to learn about cats. Following the dancing master’s command, Arya glanced again at the lad, and this time, she saw. 

She saw dried blood on sore feet, dirty hands and broken nails, blue bruises on both wrists, a recent cut on the lad’s brow, and grief, and desperation, clearly written on his hunched shoulder and all over him.

She saw an orphan. Her stomach churned.

The people cheered and began to move, all together, like sheep. The shepherds had the Baratheon’s colors, gold and black, and brought enormous chests, plentiful of loaves, smelling terribly good. Arya and the orphaned boy were forced to follow the mass, buried among walls of bodies, sweated bodies, in rough clothes. She could see nothing, but her ears still worked.

“White bread! Gods bless Lord Renly!” “White bread? Then, it’s true he’s in love with the maiden.” “No, it’s the Kingslayer who is in love with her.” “Yes, he rescued the maiden.” “That’s only a song, old man.” “No, it’s true. I saw him from my window. When still I had a house, and a window to lean off.” “My niece Bessa saw ser Jaime, too. Gold and bold, claiming for the princess.” “Bessa is a slattern, and the Evenstar isn’t a king.” “Not all whores are liars.” “Of course, your niece is the best woman ever, the Kingslayer is a true knight, and Lannisters shit gold.” “The Queen’s bread is shit.” “Have you heard what the Queen has said about a starving mother asking bread for her children? Let them eat cake, she said. Ptui!” “She’s her father’s daughter. They say she’s crazy jealous of the maiden’s beauty.” “Who? The Queen? The Queen is beautiful.” “The Queen is old, thirty or more. I’ll bet the King would gladly exchange her sagging teats with the maiden’s.” “Yeah, a maiden’s breasts are crunchy and soft like a puffy roll.” “I’ve never tasted white puffy rolls.” “You’ve been tasting only the King’s bread, in his cells, big nose. Stop stepping on my foot.” “It’s your foot who is always under my boot, and my nose is surely bigger than your cock.” “Want a taste of my cock?” “Shut up, you two. I’m so hungry I could cut your useless cocks and cook them like sausages.” “Sausages with cheese, a dream.” “Stokeworth and Rosby sent cheese and good brown bread, but it’s already gone.” “The Hand’s men have brought smoked fish.” “The Hand is a good man.” “Then why he was in cell?” “Because he’s a northman, and prays under the trees.” “This sounds stupid.” “I’d pray every single bush of Westeros for a piece of white bread and salt fish.” “I mean, it’s stupid to send a Lord into a cell for a tree.” “You dumb, it’s the Queen who hates the Hand, but the King loves him.” “The King is blind and the Gods are angry.” “Yeah. Hard times.” “Let’s pray the maiden will wake up.” “Let’s pray for rain, instead.” “And a roof on the head. Mine is gone. Highborns…” “The princess must wake up, or we’re all fucked. So says the holy man” “Is she a princess?” “Tarths were kings, once.” “Even my gran-grand-father was a king, probably, once.” “So strange, you look every inch a scum, whilst her father seems truly a king.” “The Evenstar is with Lord Renly.” “Awww, Lord Renly. So handsome, and so sad.” “The Knight of Flowers is even handsomer, Meg.” “You can kiss them both, wife, if they’re really giving us white bread.” “Mutton! The Evenstar and Lord Renly are distributing salt mutton. And white bread, with nuts.” “Mutton! I can’t believe it.” “Look with your eyes, then!”

Arya went on her tiptoes and, still, she wasn’t able to see anything.

“Hot Pie”, she said, and the lad turned towards her. _Hot Pie_ wasn’t a great name, but it worked well enough. “Let me climb on your back, and I’ll give you my portion of bread and salt mutton.”

“You’re cheating me.”

“I’m not that crazy.” _Decisively, I’m not crazy for salt mutton. It sucks._

That argument won, and, finally, once settled on the straw-haired guy’s shoulders, Arya was able to see the Evenstar. It was true he seemed a king, imponent, and severe, in a deep blue silk doublet. Then she noticed the Lord of Storm’s End - it was hard not to notice him, or his magnificent garb, all black, except for the cloak, shining the metallic shine of true cloth-of-gold, where the profile of a moon of black diamonds encircled an onyx stag. He was gifting loaves as a knight gifts kisses at a joust, but his face was stiff. _Or simply sad, like that Meg said. While Brienne’s father… It’s difficult to understand, Syrio._

However, both Lord Renly and Lord Selwyn caught in the eye. Arya’s father, and even the King, were poor things, by comparison. The Lord of Winterfell wore a rich grey velvet doublet with a white wolf embroidered in beads, and had that stupid brooch glimmering and fastening his cloak, of white silk, with a big hand sewn in cloth-of-silver. The King was already sunk on a preciously carved chair, and waved a hand, when his brother left the chests of bread to the guards, and took the seat on his left.

On his right side, the Queen. Beautiful, she was damned beautiful, with a bodice so richly embroidered with rubies and gold, that the crimson brocade underneath was almost difficult to be seen. Arya wondered how the Lannister woman could bear the hot, with all that tissue, all that gems. The other ladies had the grace to sweat, at least, and look a bit untidy. One was plump, and very untidy in her costly green samite dress slashed with white - she was weeping, maybe, and her old mother was kindly patting on her arm, uselessly. A short man with a pointed beard was clearly finding the little scene amusing - he was simply hateful, with his plum garb and yellow satin cape.

The little she-wolf got quickly bored. Hot Pie had finally reached the chests, and pleaded for the food. He was so happy, he said to her, the bread was really good, with nuts inside it, and the portions of mutton were abundant. Arya was glad for him, as long as he didn’t make her climb down. She wasn’t there to eat, nor admire stupid clothes, she was there to assist to the execution. _The executions_ , she corrected herself, licking her scratched lip. _The former Commander of the gold cloaks, and some other criminals._

Finally, they were dragged on the high, wooden dais, and she let out a small cry of surprise. The sixth man in fetters was heavily bandaged, bent over the strange man next to him - and he was noseless. The crowd took one deep breath, as if it was an only person, as the King’s Justice came, bearing a huge greatsword, shining cruelly under the merciless sun.

Arya wasn’t the crowd, though.

She simply smiled, and hoped that the High Septon would rapidly end his babbling and leave the dais, taking away his ponderous belly and his immense crown of spun gold and crystal. Its rainbow reflections were annoying her, and also the other people, maybe. The crowd moved, forming new waves, in all the hints of mud and earth, cursed, and growled, and hissed. Too much noise, and she was too far to hear well the priest’s words - but her father looked aghast. Suddenly it was all too quiet. Too still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Give them cake" is only a big fake, a calumny, sadly recurrent in history, always against women. 
> 
> Misogyny is very present even in Westeros, so, sorry, Cersei, you're the target, today. Innocent target, for once (not innocent about mixing the flour with rubbish, though).


	72. Ready for the new dragons to come

KING'S LANDING - FISHMONGER SQUARE

At the beginning he was distracted. The hot. The absurd hair of one of the condemned, half white, half red. The maid's father, above all. Ned liked the man, but the Hand had to keep an eye on the Lord of Tarth. Even ser Barristan had agreed on the fact that the Evenstar's presence was necessary, to calm the crowd, yet ser Barristan didn’t know all the truth.

“The truth!”, proclaimed loudly the High Septon, smelling of rancid sweat under tons of gems and perfumed powders. Ned wasn’t distracted, no more. He looked anxiously for another perfumed, powdered man, but the Spider was nowhere to be seen. And the Queen looked triumphant. She wore a mask of piety and grief, but her green eyes were glowing like noxious emeralds.

“The truth can be such a heavy burden to bear. Yet a brave, gentle soul came to me, and shared this burden with me. These men in fetters, oh, they’re all sinners, may the Father judge them harshly, as they’ve plenty deserved”, he pointed a fat finger to Slynt, and the bald man swayed, as insults and rotten vegetables were thrown from the impatient square. His Holiness must be mad to go on speaking, but he went on. “Yes, their sins are evident, terrible, unforgivable, but there are sins even more sordid, that are consummate in lavish bedchambers, and a maiden has been poisoned, yes, poisoned, her father’s ship put afire, her septas threatened, only to hide the truth! A maiden, an innocent, who was in the wrong place in the wrong time, and saw and ran away horrified in the night, rescued by the most valiant knight.”

The Evenstar stood, pale and fierce. His eyes were ice - pure, dreadful ice.

The silence from the square was even more icy, interrupted only by the frantic sobs of a girl. _A lady. No, a never grown child_.

There’s was an old oak, shadowing the benches, and Ned found himself praying the old Gods, for he has never seen so much hate, so much fear, not even in a battlefield. Foul odors came from the prisoners, trembling like leaves in the wind, all but the strange man with that odd hair, and his huge, wounded companion.

“The Gods are not deaf to the suffering of an innocent, and I ask the King to punish the true traitor, or the sun will keep burning the fruits of the fields, leaving nough but a dried, inhospitable land.”

The King was still, any man or woman was still, and waiting, and there were no children, only a few ones, scattered and ragged. _Orphans._ _They've left the children safe, at home,_ Ned realized _. They knew, and I should have known._

Gold cloaks, red cloaks, grey cloaks were just some rare spots of color, lost in an angry sea of brown, muddy, dusty clothes, amorphous banners of poverty. 

A sea of eyes.

Hundreds, thousands of judging, merciless eyes.

Lord Renly was frozen, a hand on ser Loras’ arm, whilst the Lannister woman had a hint of a smile on her lips. With a quick glance, Ned understood that Renly’s hand would not detain much longer the Knight of Flowers, and one blade unsheathed was one blade too many, in this folly. Ser Barristan was aware of that, too, but ser Boros was sweating hard and ser Preston had gone very pale. _Only three, and the only good one is old._

He looked again at Robert, and saw the warrior who had annihilated the old dragons. Ned breathed deeply, calm, and ready for the new dragons to come.

“The only hope in the darkness is the light, and the only light we have is the truth, says the Seven-Pointed Star. Right men can’t be afraid by it, and our King is a right man, and fearless, and his justice will fall like a hammer on the traitor, who dares to seat, even today, at the King’s side!”


	73. The hammer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BRIENNE'S POV

EVENFALL'S HALL – THE GREAT HALL

He was older than Father, with a nose like a hawk and a spotted head, and he wanted Brienne to give up everything.

He wanted to _chastise_ her.

Her heart cracked, with a sound as soft and irrilevant as a drop of rain falling on snow. She didn't want to die, not this way, slowly, withering day by day, like a hateful rose.

Not without fighting. 

"No", she said, and hammered the ground with a foot too big for any lovely slipper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware this chapter sounds like a crack in the narration. It's a breaking point, in truth. For a while, a short while with very short chapters, it's going to be a bit messy, and confused - many POVs, some of them are really dazed.   
> I hope you won't mind, and will enjoy the 'tourbillon'.   
> Let me know your impressions, negative or positive, if you'll find the time - and thank you for reading


	74. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE RED PRIESTESS' POV

ASSHAI BY THE SHADOW 

_I can't._ She glanced down at her wrinkled hands. Her fingers were stiff, torn, useless. _I can't,_ she repeated to herself. _And I don't want_ , she confessed to the shadows eating her heart. She closed her eyes, and the blasphemous old woman she had become hoped simply to open them never more.

The usual ache in her back woke her. Dawn was still far, too far, and the Ash glimmered a pale, sickly green. Nothing to compare with the green of the monster's eyes. They looked like emeralds in the sunlit, or like deep, intricate forests in the dusk. He was beautiful, the most beautiful creature she had ever seen, and Melisandre had seen so many things.

Melisandre. The red priestess.

 _It's a gift. A great honor to serve the Light_ , they had told her. She had believed them, but now... her Faith was weak, like her skeletal, dried legs and she was bone tired of fighting creatures of the night.

 _I can't_ , she begged, and the green-eyed darkness laughed. She heard him laughing, distinctly, his mockery brought to her by a spit of wind, burning hot on her cheeks.

 _You must, you must, you must -_ the hammer in her head. 

_I must_ , she yielded, shacking like a leaf, and listened thrilled at the voices coming from the never sleeping city, where no children were allowed to stay - and looked up at the caves in the cliffs upon the river, where the dragons were waiting.

Waiting for her. 

Waiting for her to obey the only Lord.

To change the night into Day.

To awake the Light.

Waiting for her to become Fire.

It was such a perfect moment. A moment of pure faith, and grace. The child in her would never wanted it to end.


	75. Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BRAN'S POV

WINTERFELL – THE BROKEN TOWER

The fall seemed never to end.

Yet it ended, but he was suddenly elsewhere, looking at the ancient tower crumbling, roaring like an agonizing dragon of stone. The roar was too loud and covered the screaming of people.

If they were people, and not ants went crazy.

Bran was flying too high in the sky, to be sure.


	76. Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MAESTER CRESSEN'S POV

DRAGONSTONE – AT THE FOOT OF THE DRAGONMONT

The Sea Dragon collapsed onto the garden with a sound that had nothing of human, of compassionate. A wyvern followed him, then a basilisk and many other monsters dared a last flight before shattering into thousand pieces of dark, glimmering stone.

The sky was a solid mass of ashes and the molten, red and orange, rock glowed slowly his way to the port. The fishermen wooden houses and the ships took fire like dried grass, and the sea changed into a flaming monster, with scales and wings.

Cressen was grabbing with all his weakness to a minotaur – it was so absurd to be so desperately clutch to life, at his age, yet… The maester had to survive the shakes, he had to lead the survivors in a safer place, he had to inform the king. He had to know if his children were all safe.

Robert, and his laughs.

Renly, and his smiles.

Stannis, and his unhappiness, and Shireen. Lovely, sweet Shireen with eyes the color of sadness.

Another, smaller shake took his breath away. He only hoped that Shireen’s ship was far enough from the island that the Targaryens had shaped and damned with their arcane arts, and blood. Too much blood.


	77. Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DAVOS' POV

THE NARROW SEA - THE BLACKWATER BAY

First came the wind, harsh and hot, like a dragon's breath. Then the sky changed in the blink of an eye, and his lord’s face became tight and grey like that strange, almost solid, fog, smelling like brittle iron.

“Shireen”, lord Stannis shouted, and wrapped his thick arms on the tiny lady, just before the first wave came and washed the deck of the _Fury_. Davos gritted his teeth and had the time to glimpse at his back, once, to see his Devan helping the lord to raise again on his feet, before the second wave came, and the third.

He lost everything but not the grasp on the crude hemp. He lost Devan’s sight. He lost Stannis’. Then the smuggler heard the fool’s bells, beneath the shouts of his good Maric trying to keep control of the oarsmen, and the screams of sailors and men, and turned and saw Devan, with the child, her eyes blue and beautiful, and filled with tears. She was cradling her father, his head on her lap, and blood, there was too much blood on her gold-and-orange gown.

 _Under the sea, tears fall up_ , Davos recalled, and he shivered underneath his soaked clothes, his hand clutching a pouch, his mouth clutching a prayer, words too frozen to melt now that dark clouds had drowned the sun. 


	78. Steam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JAIME'S POV

KING’S LANDING? 

Waves. The hot water growled in small waves and spun in the steamy mist, flooding over the border of the stone tub, flooding over him. There were no signs of fissures or cracks in the vaults of the ceiling.

Tyrion was calling him, roaring.

No, it was Addam, his voice broken as if he had bronze pins fixed in the throat. 

Bruised, confused, Jaime turned over and crawled, and finally raised on his bare feet, struggling, fighting with the floor swaying under him like the deck of a foundering ship.

_Brienne._

One step.

_Brienne._

One step.

_Brienne._


	79. Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TYRION'S POV

BEYOND THE WALL - IN THE HAUNTED FOREST

_Far beyond my best hopes of a great adventure._

_But I don't want Jaime to die, and he would laugh to his death if I end in a grumkin's belly,_ Tyrion thought, and unsheathed the nice dagger that his brother had gifted him. The Stark bastard had a longsword, his friends shocked faces and maces. Grenn was holding the mace the wrong way.

An axe would have fit better for the task, and three of the rangers had axes. The giant from Tarth had an enormous double-faced axe, shimmering sharp and black like dragonglass.

 _Dragonglass, instead of good steel. Charming._ Not that it really mattered, in the end. The snarks were too many, and they moved quick like cats. 

“It can't be”, muttered Jon, and every word was a puff of white mist in the still air.“Old Nan said they were big as dogs.”

“I think they're still too big”, replied Pypar. “The biggest spiders I've ever seen.”

Pyp was truly a smart boy. They were the most uncommon spiders Tyrion had ever seen, the ice of their bodies shifting in color which every single move they did. The Imp realized he would have seen his ugly face mirrored by one of those wretched things while dying, and got vexed with the Gods. It was known that wicked and vile dwarves the such of him were supposed to end their days in a whore's arms or on a headman's block. It was clearly unfair, and Tyrion started fighting against this blatant injustice.

Surprisingly, that blade wasn't that bad. It swirled and cut easily the thin legs of those horrors, and pierced through their crusty eyes with a _crack_ reminding him the first morsel of a freshly baked loaf. The more he he hit them, the more Tyrion was growing hungry.

 _Jaime, look at me and wonder,_ he shouted to himself, then he was blinded by a reflection on the stupid, frozen monster that wanted to chew a lion alive.

The reflection of a bright, burning light, white as fangs and blue as ice.


	80. Save the Queen

KING’S LANDING – THE RED KEEP – THE WHITE SWORD TOWER

The world was white around him. White like a bride's dress, and finally still. 

“We got to carry him outside.”

“You heard the maester. He won’t survive if his wound will re-open again. Go, Porther. I stay with him.”

“No, he won’t survive, and you either won’t survive, if the next shake...”

“Go. The both of you”, Arys managed to say, and they stared at him, uncertain, incredulous. Scared. Two children. “Go to her. Save her."

White draperies. White faces. White hearts.

"Save the Queen,” he commanded.


	81. Save the King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SER BARRISTAN'S POV

KING'S LANDING - FISHMONGER'S SQUARE

A roar raised from the crowd, or from the core of the earth, or both.

_Save the King._

He was not far from the King when the shakes began. The first, loud like an explosion, and endless. The second, brief and stronger. Cracks opened on the Mud Gate, and it crumbled, lifting a white veil of dust to mask the cruelness of the Gods. So much dust, thick and tasteless on his tongue. Some other shakes: small, unsettling waves. Finally, the ground was again still, blessedly still, under his feet.

_Save the King._

The King was uninjured, shrouded with dust, and now raising on his feet, the Hand waddling at his side. Likely all the people who were seated on the honor seats were unharmed. Ser Loras had blood on his face, but he had only bitten too hard his lip. He was so young.

Ser Preston was on his knees. Ser Boros was standing, clinging desperately to a pole supporting the canopy. 

_Save the King._

The craven was deaf, indifferent to any call or tug, his eyes red and void, fixed onto the sea.

A sea of flour and fear. Muffled screams from under the ruins of the Mud Gate echoed and reverberated, and reverberated, first soft, then loud, painfully loud, storming till the dais.

_Save the King._

He took his brother from under the armpits to pull him up.

On the dais, a wall of bodies frozen by terror, and the High Septon - dead, his crown shattered in a thousand daggers of crystal. Yet there was no blood upon him, the waves flowed in, washing up his robe candid, immaculate. The dust was only white on white, snow on snow.

_Save the King._

The King was standing, tall and solemn. Fearless.

Someone laughed, a young man, that would be handsome but for his absurd hair, and laughed so hard that his fetters made the clinking-clanking sound of money or of Moonboys' bells. The sea roared in shock and disdain. 

_Save the King._

His brother was on his feet again. They moved like one man, to shield the King.


	82. Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BRIENNE'S POV

TARTH - THE GREAT WATERFALLS

The falls formed a vortex. The Beast, they called it, for its embrace was deadly - but Gal knew how to avoid it, and he had avoided it. He was so good with the oars and the little boat was new, and yellow, like a lemon.

It made no sense. 

They were singing together, then Galladon had yawned and she had closed her eyes, only for an instant. 

She was on the shore now, safe, soaked till bones. The vortex was ready to devour the lemon boat, the thunder of the falls covering her screams.

She was screaming.

Because Gal was still inside the boat, asleep.

Because he had been chosen.

For a _gift._

She screamed even louder.

The stranger just tightened his grasp on her. His words were wind, his fingers were steel, but Brienne was water, Father used to say, and she dribbled away from him.

She stormed into the pool, and shivered - the water was cold, terribly cold. No matter, she was sure to reach Gal. Brienne was born on water, for water, Father always said, and Father was always right.

She was fast, and near, so near. Brienne's fingertips brushed the small boat, swinging and shimmering a pale gold in the sun.

Then came the Beast, in a fury of foam and darkness, and she fought against it, she fought in a mid of bubbles and green sparks, and learned that water burns like fire when it fills your lungs.


	83. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JAIME'S POV

KING'S LANDING - THE WENCH'S TOWER

Brienne's lips were smeared with blood.

 _It's mine. I hit something while falling,_ he realized, and felt no relief. The only color left on her face was the red of Jaime's blood.

And her skin was cold.

"She's still breathing", said the lad, without stammering, his face smooth like a child's, his eyes resolute like a warrior's. Addam was ready for the fight, too, waiting for Jaime's command.

He didn't need warriors, though. He needed someone like Tyrion. He had to think, and quick.


	84. The giant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TYRION'S POV

_Hear me roar._ He roared and roared, and other spiders came. They could just slow them, now that ser Endrew had fallen. Such a stupid giant. Sacrificing himself for a fucking dwarf.

Tyrion glimpsed at Jon, and at his desperate attempt to reach for the dragonglass axe. Dragonglass could kill the spiders, it _burned_ them. They screamed whilst dying, the damned things, and their voice was like the cracking of ice on a winter lake, only higher - a very thin, almost unbearable sound, yet it sounded like a harp in his ears.

The Stark bastard tripped on some monsters, and his pet was a bit too busy with a dozen snarks. Fuck. Fuck the cold. Fuck the guys with wobbly legs. Fuck the useless direwolves. Fuck the idiot who had gone to the Wall for a piss and beyond the Wall for he had been pissed off.

No choice. Tyrion had to help the lad on his feet again. He had that unforgivable soft spot for cripples, bastards and broken things. One day he would die for this fucking soft spot.

 _One day. Not today_ , he roared.


	85. The bastard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JON'S POV

The axe was in his hand.

The spider was on his back, its legs like frozen needles that were already at work on the thick wool of his cloak.

 _It tickles_ , the green boy thought, as the blood began seeping and soaking the clothes he had brought from Winterfell.

Winterfell. A stone crypt for the Starks. A shroud of snow for him - yet suddenly it didn't truly matter.

Jon simply didn't want to die. He told her.

The lady Catelyn smiled, her eyes bright and pale like mirrors of ice. He had forgotten that she was so beautiful.


	86. The lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DANY'S POV

It was all so beautiful. The fire was devouring everything, the Dothraki Sea was now a sea of flames, red, yellow, and purple, and the sky was an astonishing, grieved blue.

It was gorgeous, but she had the good sense not to say it aloud. The King hadn't.

***

When the ardent waves washed up Viserys' pyre, his screams became louder than the horses' desperate neighing during the big fire - the high and senseless sounds of a craven facing his death.

Ser Jorah tried to stop her, but she was Daenerys Stormborn, Princess of Dragonstone and Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, and she climbed on the smoking wood, she reached her brother and slid his throat. It was easier than she had thought, and finally Vyseris was free, and silent. She glanced down at his flesh turning black and cracked.

 _He was no dragon, nor King,_ Dany couldn't help but think.

The small, true dragon in her belly moved, for the first time, quicker and lighter than a feather in a whirl of wind, and she smiled. Still smiling, she offered her hands to the fire and the fire licked Viserys' blood from her fingers, with a satisfied roar, like a lion of red-and-gold, shining in the smoke.


	87. The lioness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CERSEI'S POV

KING'S LANDING - FISHMONGER'S SQUARE

She was covered with thin dust. She was well. Dazed. Unbelieving. But she was well. 

She just wanted to slap Lollys and make it stop, her stupid whining. She wanted to kick the fat man lying on the dais, but he was dead, killed by fear. _Such a coward, and he has never said the name “Renly”, or the word "invert", not once. If Gods are good, he’s in one of the seven hells, now._

Gods weren’t good.

Gods were allowing a scum to climb on the dais, then another, and another...

White cloaks and grey cloaks were shielding Robert and his Ned, Renly was protecting his little rose or backwards, even Lord Cough was wrapping his arms around Lady Tanda, who was entangled to her useless daughters.

The Queen was alone, and praying for the shakes to come back, and open a dark hole into the earth, and swallow them all.

Luckily the scum had other plans. They wanted truly justice, mayhap, as they were shouting. The Queen almost smiled, when they began hitting Slynt, and the other men in fetters. They seemed acting like an only person, an only beast, tearing the condemned apart with fangs and claws.

Her nostrils flared when the stench of blood and rancid sweat reached them, and the Queen wondered why the beast was forgetting the noseless man. Maybe it was because of his bandages, or because he had stabbed Ser Ilyn in the back and severed his head, and the beast had been deceived, or pleased by the gift.

 _Pleased_ , she decided, and glanced to Ser Boros - his breeches were wet. _Disgusting_. Jaime was right about the man.

_Jaime._

_Jaime should be here, dying for me, dying with me._

Cersei didn’t move from her tall chair, or cry. It would be useless. The noseless man was too big for her, and she was a Queen, and a lioness, not a hideous wench serving slaps or punches.


	88. Underwater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JAIME'S POV

The wench was blue, or maybe it was only the water to be blue. No, it was all due to the tiny, cobalt stones composing the mosaic at the bottom of the large tub.

It must be that way.

No one might be such blue.

No one might have such hair.

Long, absurdly soft, it was flowing and floating all around her paleness, like a veil of azure silk and cloth-of-silver, sewn with hundreds of shiny air pearls, kissing back the morning light. 

Chaotic bunches of tiny bubbles caressed her face, some playing with the blue dots called freckles above the surface, others nesting in the corner of her lips, or grasping to the long eyelashes, which were so stubbornly still - stubborn past the point of patience.

And Jaime wasn’t a patient man. Nor one who was used to beg.

 _Wake up, wench, or learn how to breath water,_ he told her soundlessly, and caught in his breath, as some small, very small air spheres began swimming towards him, frantic, suddenly frightened by the hesitant, unrelenting light thrilling through Brienne's eyelashes.

No one might have such astonishing eyes.


	89. Resurfacing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BRIENNE'S POV

Green eyes.

So green, to remain green, through the dark water walls protecting her.

A smooth, liquid armor she'd never wanted to leave. Yet Brienne had to.

Fear flushed her flesh, as she resurfaced, defenceless.


	90. The music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ARYA'S POV

HERE. BURIED. ALIVE. 

The light came back, crawling towards her through stones, stones and bricks and dust, like it had forgot how to walk or fly, and she saw again - it was like Arya was able to see for the first time.

The words materialized in front of her in the shape of men made of chalk and haste, and she looked nowhere but at the stupid blue eyes that called her Arry with a music that her body recognized, and her mind struggled to remember.

He let him cradle her in his arms, thick and surprisingly gentle, and listened only to that music, ignoring the man booming over all of them with a king’s voice. 


	91. The follower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NED'S POV

KING'S LANDING - FISHMONGER'S SQUARE

The Evenstar was looking at the cloudless sky, and Ned was looking at the Evenstar, so they both could do nothing, when Robert shoved aside ser Barristan and ser Preston as if they were made of butter, and knocked down the bloody-eyed man who was lifting over his head of the monstrous blade that had been ser Ilyn’s.

 _The Queen_ , a stranger shouted.

The monstrous blade swirled in the thick air, this time in the expert hands of the King, and the monster turned and raised a thick, hairy arm trying to stop its deadly arch but the arm hit on the wood of the dais, with a _thud_ which made Ned breathe again: such a pleasant thud, muffled and loud at the same time, like snow falling from a thick branch. A pity the noseless man was already dead, too quickly, too easily - Robert’s blade parting his collarbone with the strength of a war hammer, ripping flesh and bones.

Blood and entrails burst on the Queen, on the King, and Robert towered on the square, white with chalk and silk, black with fury and velvet - now with swords in both hands, lifting them against the sky, as if the sky had become too narrow for him.

“STOP THIS MADNESS”, he boomed with the same battlefield voice he had proven to have on the Trident, “IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING.”

The people quieted, if only for a while, and gold and crimson blossomed boldly all around the square, the shine of steel grouping in ordered rows, barking silent warnings, but the crowd was far to be a scared, peaceful herd. It moved slowly, inexorably, raising clouds of pallid dust that seemed almost steam, freed from the boiling earth.

“Justice”, shouted a woman, from the hole of her dark, toothless mouth. She could be sixty or thirty, hers were the unreadable features of misery.

“Justice,” repeated a hundred, a thousand voices in a growing, dreadful litany.

“Justice is dead when the maiden died, and we’re all doomed”, came from nowhere, and the voices melted again into an only roar.

“SHE’S NOT DEAD!”, thundered the Evenstar, stepping at Ned’s side, and at the King’s right. On the King’s left, ser Barristan, and Renly, with the Knight of Flowers. With a glimpse, Ned noticed ser Preston and ser Jacelyn Bywater leading the Queen and the other highborn ladies behind a wall of gold cloaks.

“SHE’S NOT DEAD, SHE’S SAFE IN THE RED KEEP”, bellowed the King, “LET YOUR KING PASS”, the sword in his right pointed to what remained of the Mud Gate.

“LET THE KING PASS”, Ned heard his own voice echo, with Ser Barristan’s, and cursed himself, whilst climbing down the dais to follow Robert.

That was so weirdly familiar, Ned following Robert, no matter where, no matter if Robert was a brat or a king. Probably he was both, the warrior brat had somehow disguised as a king, and the King was pressing to reach the ruins, yet the crowd parted only to become a cage of sweated bodies and reddened eyes, full of wonder, anger, expectation. Silk and steel men were walking exactly were the roughspun and mud men wanted them to go.

“To the Red Keep.”

“To the Red Keep.”

“To the Red Keep,” the ghosts were murmuring, praying, yelling, swearing - _someone is even singing a song I’ve never heard_ \- white and deadly like the sword in Ned’s dream.

 _And now it begins_ , whispered in Ned’s ears the shadow of a knight long time dead, his eyes deep and bitter like truth.


	92. Unforgivably stupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BRIENNE'S POV

KING'S LANDING - A VAULTED ROOM

She needed him to know. 

"Gal... Galladon”, she pleaded, realizing to be in a vaulted room - the water was warm, his hands were warm, not cold, this time.

He laughed, and a handsome man joined the laugh. The man - a knight - had copper in his hair, like Gal, but Gal's curls were brighter, golden-red.

“Can you believe it, Addam? This wicked wench mistook me for a legendary perfect knight”, said one who was no true knight, indeed. “I told you she was unforgivably stupid.”

“In the last days you said scarcely a couple of words, Jaime, and this is not the right time to be such a shit-mouth”, protested the knight named Addam, looking at her so intensely that she felt her neck and cheeks go again on fire. “Welcome back, my lady, let me help you in getting out the tub.”

The knight's grey-and-orange doublet got soaked, when Brienne was unceremoniously lifted by a groaning lion and shoved hastily in the knight's arms, dribbling like a hang rag, her skin clammy and covered by goosebumps. Her hands had barely the force to grab at the half-stranger, her head empty and light like the shells she used to collect on the shore, when she was a child, when she still had a brother.

 _Oh. Pod._ The lad was there, too, his face turned against the wall. She felt strangely glad to see him. Even more glad that Pod couldn't see her. 

“For Gods' sake, wench, you're heavier than a drowned cow, and you even look like one big drowned cow”, Jaime groaned again, jumping out the stone tub with the grace of a dancer, naked like in his name day, if not for the smallclothes, which were mercilessly white and wet. Water ran from his curls on his broad shoulders, trickling from the hair on his chest, and down his flat belly and muscled legs. She wondered how he could shimmer that recklessly, his skin was an alloy of gold and flesh, and her glance fell where it shouldn't have, but she didn't see anything, it was just the linen, creased and crumpled linen to form that bulge, no, she hadn't seen anything, anything at all, and he shouldn't look that pleased, and happy.

 _He shouldn't look at me, at all_ , she decided, shivering. He was hateful, and she wanted to be with her father, and covered by mail and steel, not by a miserable night gown, all soaked and cold and stuck to her giant body. 

“I'm no wench, and you're no knight”, the words poured out her mouth before she could even think them, and Jaime's smile changed into the sharp grin of someone who enjoyed teaching children how to fly. 

“Your teats are so insignificant, wench, that it's easy for you to forget your sex, but don't spit on of my spurs. I gained them against the Kingswood Brotherhood, and it was ser Arthur Dayne who knighted me.”

“Enough, Jaime”, said sternly the copper-haired man. 

Brienne had almost forget about the knight, and she felt angry, stupidly ashamed, and her body wasn't following her orders, and now she really longed to see her father, and even septa Roelle. But she kept at bay her tears. She wasn't a soft, helpless woman. She didn't need ser Addam's gentle touch on her nape, nor she needed to tuck her crooked nose on his shoulder, because she was strong, freakishly strong, like that stone-faced scum had noticed just one or maybe two days ago. And freaks don't swoon, she was just... well, maybe this was an exception.


	93. Sheets included

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JAIME'S POV

KING’S LANDING – THE WENCH’S TOWER

Long, black fingers ran on a pale skin, tracing a path for the flood of flush, and Brienne’s voice was soft, now, almost musical, as she was thanking the harpist who was helping her to get rid of the wet shift and wear a new one, found in some trunk by the lad.

For a heartbeat, his rage was forgotten. Then, the door closed, and the vivid colors of the stolen image dissolved in the dim passage, and the rage came back, stronger than before.

Jaime detested the wench.

If she weren’t that weak, he would …what should he do? What should he have done more? She was only a wench, a stupid, sullen, scornful wench, and Jaime had drunk enough of her ugliness to be inebriated for the rest of his life. 

He put on breeches and boots with such an angry haste, that Addam raised an eyebrow, and the guards stared at him as he were a mad man – or maybe they were still shocked from the vision of him and Addam carrying the wench to and from the bath, that was luckily on the same floor, with Pod following like a starved dog, his brown eyes wide and less shy than usual. Even now, the lad was looking at him, silently begging for a word or some comfort that Jaime wasn’t in the mood to give. The only thing Jaime wanted to give was a punch to the red cloak that was still gaping at him.

“Go and check all the walls, all the ceilings, and report me any crack or fissure, even the slimmest one”, said Addam, and when the men left, clearly relieved, he mussed Pod’s hair. “Don’t worry, lad, it’s normal that she can’t walk, it’s too early, she has barely the strength to keep her eyelids lifted by now. Seven days abed are not a nice thing, but she’s going to recover, I grant you. She’s young, no more than sixteen I guess.”

“Seventeen”, Jaime corrected with a snarl.

The heir to Ashemark smiled to the former heir of Casterly Rock, and Jaime wondered what the hell was so fun – they were still stuck to the wench, and he couldn’t imagine the drunkard changing his mind so easily. As Lancel and Tyrek had figured out at this point, Robert could really be ingenious when it came about bothering a Lannister.

_The only hope is that Renly walks down the aisle with the wench as soon as possible, with his little rose weeping in a corner of the Sept because he can’t wear the white dress. Gods, that’s so comic to be almost tragic. The earthquake, by comparison, is a nice…_

“What are you thinking about, Jaime?”

He shrugged. “The shakes.” It wasn’t a lie. Not _completely_ a lie, at least.

“Oh. That explains that pretty face of yours”, added Addam, with a smirk he should have avoided. “I was thinking we can knock, instead, and see if the lady is ready, in order to get her out of this tower. I’m not in love with the shakes the way you are, my sweetheart. And before saying some other witty sentence, remember you need also my arms to carry the lady down those damn’d steps.”

 _I’ve done it before, and all by myself_ , Jaime thought, and felt his stomach twitch. He said nothing, though.

***

She blinked, and blinked again. Mute, her face white as the sheets under which she was sheltering herself. Gods, if she was exasperating.

“I-I’m not going anywhere, before seeing Father,” she stuttered, in the end, frowning. She was nicer when she was mute.

“For all I know, wench, your lovely lord father could be under a pile of bricks, by now.”

“Jaime!”

“S-ser!”

He snorted. “What I was trying to say, my lady not so fair and not so smart, is that we can’t stay here and wait for the next earthquake to come, crash the tower and reduce you in a bloody pulp, even if it would be an improvement.”

“Jaime!”

“S-ser, p-p-pl-pl…”

“Please, Pod? Please my ass! We’re a bit in a hurry, aren’t we?”

“Which earthquake?”, Brienne asked, and blinked, widening her eyes, which were... large, too large, extremely and annoyingly large, even for that broad face of hers.

Jaime roared, and dragged her out of the bed, sheets included.


	94. Twice in a day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ARYA'S POV

KING'S LANDING - THE RED KEEP - BRIENNE'S TOWER

Do never disturb a purring cat.

Arya hissed and scratched, when the sheets were torn from under her, and she heard Brienne yelling something halfway between a curse and a prayer…

Brienne! She was finally awake, and well.

_Damn. Not too well._

Brienne’s fist had fallen like a feather on Jaime Lannister’s chest, yet it seemed that the act had sapped the tall girl of all her energies, because she seemed on the verge to faint, or some other Sansa-shit, and… that was singular, indeed. It couldn’t be, probably Arya was wrong.

Why ever should the Kingslayer look that worried? Also… exultant, his sharp smile reaching the green of his eyes, when Brienne had to rest her left arm around his neck and on his shoulder, her right one on his chest – her head on his _cheek_.

Disgusted, Arya flew on her four paws, zigzagging among the skinny squire, the blind harpist and the brazen man called Addam, down the stairs, and when she realized that she was finally outside and that no one was chasing after her, she stopped, in order to lick her lustrous black tail, and forget, before being swallowed by the uproar and by a cloud of dust.

_Oh, no. Not again, not twice in a day._

Arya woke screaming, a huge statue towering over her. It was white like Brienne’s face, and wrapped in pink and blue and gems.

“You’re safe, Arry, or whatever your name is. We’re in Baelor’s Sept now, a holy place, half the court is here seeking the Gods’ protection, even the Queen.”

Arya screamed even louder, no matter which other craps Gendry was telling her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They say that cats can 'feel' an earthquake before it comes... I don't know, actually. Maybe it's only my cat that had the tendency to ignore completely the shakes, and keep purring while the dog tried to catch his attention.  
> I'd like to warg in a cat, once in my life, to understand.


	95. The embrace

KING'S LANDING - A TOWER IN THE RED KEEP

She was not used to be carried. She was not used to be… embraced. Because it felt like an embrace, and not only a reckless display of arrogance. Arrogance _and_ strength.

 _May the Gods help me. He’s strong, strong enough for me_ , Brienne thought, shameful and dazed, her skin afire. Melting, where her forehead met his cheek. She had to close her eyes, as the room was spinning too quickly all around them.

 _Them_.

_Nonsense._

She must keep concentrate, even if it was hard.

 _Concentrate, Brienne, and think. Your father is somewhere, no more abed. This is good, and not so strange. No trace of Septa Roelle, or of her sister, and this is strange, instead. Renly? Where's Renly? No use to ask the Kingslayer_ , Brienne guessed.

She must keep calm. There were Pod, guiding the kind Bethany towards the door, and ser Addam. She couldn’t see them, but they were surely still there, she could hear their steps following Jaime down the stairs - they wouldn’t left her alone with Jaime, and his short, panting breathes, moist and sage smelling. His smell was dangerously good, in a world that was mercilessly moving, moving, leaving Brienne breathless.

Then a thunder - and suddenly it was no more a joke of her mind. The tower made out a frigthful shriek and trembled, it actually trembled - Addam swore - Beth cried - Jaime went on his knees, dragging Brienne down and digging his fingers so deep into her flesh that it was painful, and now his smell was impossible to be denied, his chest, pressed on hers, a golden veil of curls blinding her sight and one, uncalled curl even in her mouth. It was wet, and tasted faintly of soap.

A piece of plaster fell on the bare forearm she had wrapped around Jaime’s head and neck to shield him. Brienne felt the warmth of her own blood, but no pain, only relief.

It was gone. For now.

“A-a-are you well, s-s-ser? S-s-sorry if…”

“Don’t worry, Pod. You’re too light to be a problem, even if I’d preferred it was our lovely singer to fall upon me,” answered Addam, his voice bravely cheerful, just a bit strained. Brienne heard a small laugh, half sincere, half hysterical, coming from Bethany. “Jaime? How about you and the lady?”

“Which lady?”, Jaime’s lips brushed her cheek, and the corner of her mouth, as he tried to speak. Brienne almost wished for another shake to come and bury her, and her alone. Just a little brick on one of Jaime’s toes, maybe. The little toe. “I’d like to breathe, and survive your hug, wench, the way I survived the shakes.”

“Don’t speak that loudly, Jaime, and get us out of here. You’ll have the time to ki- I mean, you and the lady will have the time to talk, when we’ll be all safe.”

An appalled Brienne realized that it was actually her grasp to hinder Jaime’s movements, and let him free with a gasp, that he seemed finding very amusing.

He was smiling, the scum. “Now you know what an earthquake is, numb of a wench”, he added, white, bright teeth, just a few inches from her burning face.

“It wasn’t an earthquake, not this time. It was the Tower of the Hand”, broke in Addam, looking out of an opening in the wall of the narrow staircase, his voice suddenly darker than a pit.

Jaime’s face dropped, the muscles of his neck and his chest tensing in the effort to lift Brienne and reach for the loophole. 

“What’s wrong with the Tower of the Hand, ser?”, asked Bethany, softly.

“There’s no more the Tower of the Hand.”


	96. Ruins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SANSA'S POV

KING'S LANDING - THE RED KEEP - AMONG THE RUINS OF THE TOWER OF THE HAND

Her cheek was burning more than her eyes. Sansa stroke it, and it was like her fingers were stroking Sandor’s fingers, somehow. 

“So, little bird, are you going to be quiet, now?”

She nodded, not too quick, gracefully, properly. In the most proper way she could, at least, considering the disaster of her hair and dress. Most of all, Sansa didn’t know which was the most lady-like way to react after having being slapped. Maybe swoon and ease delicately down, on the ground, but the cobblestones seemed really uncomfortable, and the ruins promised a good deal of scratches and scabs. She had pondered about calling for a true knight to come and avenge her, but the only man her father had left at the Red Keep was Vayon Poole and he was a very nice and loyal person, but he was no knight. The Hound was no knight, either, but he could use a sword, and if he liked to hear Sansa screaming he wouldn’t have hit her, and effectively she had screamed a bit too much for a Stark of Wintefell, so a lovely nod was the best choice, after all. Sansa felt proud of herself.

“Good. It was just a tower, girl, if you have lost a doll, your noble father will buy you another one, lovelier. Now, stop wasting my time, go back in the godswood with the other wolves. Your Septa is howling, can’t you hear her?”

Sansa could, so nodded again. It wasn’t only Septa Mordane who was calling, and calling. The little lady recognized many voices, Jeyne and Jeyne’s father’s, the cook, the pimpled stable boy… they were all looking for Arya, not for her, yet.

“If you do prefer, you can follow me in Meagor’s Holdfast. The prince and his siblings are there, in the garden facing the sea. Joffrey is Joffrey, but still better than these ruins, and this dust is hellish. Are you coming, little bird?” 

The dust wasn’t that bad. It was more like a pink fog, shining lightly in the sun, masking a bit the bites left by the fire on the Hound’s jaw. Even his voice seemed less harsh than usual.

“Little bird? Come on, nod another time, it’s easy, and it suits your pretty, empty head. Oh, the Others take you, don’t you weep, I can’t stand children weeping.”

_I’m almost a woman grown, and I’m already betrothed_ , Sansa wanted to say, but in the last days this kind of thoughts made her sad, and Joffrey wasn’t the reason she had left the godswood to come on the remnants of the Tower of the Hand. She left the tears wash away the dirt, and sooth as a balm her aching cheek and her more aching soul. Sansa wasn’t that proud of herself, in the end. 

“It’s about Arya”, she managed to say between a sob and another. “She’s here, I know she’s here, but nobody listens to me.” Sandor’s skin went pale under the scowl and the scars. “They never listen to me, no more, since I spent one night in the Queen’s rooms...”

“…whilst your lord father was in another large, lavish room, that they feign to be a prison. Lords.” He snorted, she startled, and the Hound sighed. “Wanna spend all day with some sweet memories, or wanna find your sister? Are you sure she’s here?”

Sansa nodded, not so gracefully now she must look as a peasant girl, and pointed her finger to a pile of wood and bricks.

The Hound was very, very pale, now. Almost angry. “It’s impossible, the steward told me that no one was inside the tower when it crumbled, that you wolves had the time to go outside.”

“It’s because they think she’s with Father, Arya told Jeyne and me that she was going with Father, but she was lying, I always know when she’s lying, she thinks I’m just a stupid but she’s the stupid who can’t say a lie without sneering with her eyes and…”

The Hound was no more listening. He was on his hands and knees, the ear, his only ear, placed on the ruins Sansa had indicated. “I hear something. A whine,” he murmured, before adding some unrepeatable words. He called for help, and began lifting brick and pieces of wood with his bare hands. “Fuck, I got a splinter. Hope the Hand loves all his children very much, even a younger daughter. Is he generous your father, isn’t he? He must be.”

She didn’t answer. She was silently praying, and smiled, relieved, when Sandor swore and cursed her, and the other people started laughing, but only when they were at a certain distance, for prince Joffrey’s dog had just saved an old cat. They didn’t know, and they would never listen to her, the way Sandor had listened. 

Sat on a big stone, Sansa cradled the poor creature in her arms, and caressed lightly his black fur, being careful not to touch his broken leg, because she knew, instead, Arya was wounded, scared and lost somewhere in the city, but she was alive and someone was surely caring about her. There was always someone waiting for you, caring about you, living for you, no matter if you're ugly and too tall, or short and very rude, or pretty and good-mannered. There must be someone. A knight. A true knight.

"If you meet a true knight, you can forgive him some little faults, isn't it Arya?" Arya meowed polemically, and Sansa giggled, admiring the ruins. _Ruins aren't that awful, if you get used to them._


	97. Down the serpentine steps

KING'S LANDING - THE RED KEEP - THE WENCH'S TOWER

Her heartbeat was pulsing strenuously through the thin layers of cloths, being the only thing that still anchored Jaime to this plane of reality.

Where once stood tall and fierce the Tower of the Hand, there was nothing, but a pile of ruins and dust, resembling a crumpled gown forgotten on the floor, a gown of a terrible pink, with an elaborate embroidery of vaporous, itching lace of dust. The Sept loomed spectral, lonely, but still there, apparently intact - so the armory, the stables, the kennels, the pig yard: a good thing for horses, dogs, and pigs, less good for wolves.

 _Crushed, like an annoying fly. An insulting death, even for the damned wolves._ Jaime swore under his breath, the two loopholes being too narrow to see other than a corner of the Maidenvault, and, fuck, nothing of Maegor’s Holdfast. _Myrcella. Tommen._ He wondered if they were curled in a hug, with Myrcella holding Tommen in her arms the way she used to do every time Tommen was afraid, her hand through his golden hair, like Brienne’s hand through Jaime’s hair, just a moment ago. A century ago, maybe. The time had stopped. Not the time, _they_ had stopped, the idiots.

A last, treacherous thought about the White Sword Tower, slender and frail - but there was no way to know anything, not remaining idle in that recess in the wall, that had been conceived for a couple of archers, not for five stupid fugitives – well, four and a half. The harpist was sobbing quietly on the half-man’s shoulder, and even Addam was looking at Jaime as if Jaime Lannister of the fucking Rock can do something special like killing a dragon with a mirror shield or what else? Building a tower anew, just singing and moving his pretty hands in the air?

Jaime’s hands were already busy, for that matter. His arms sore, his knees burning – and they had just begun, they had descended not even a flight. Who built that tower and its serpentine steps must suffer the most terrible sufferings in the most horrid of the seven hells. Of course, the wench had her part of guilt. She was heavy like all the Gods above put together – the temptation of leaving her there was growing stronger and stronger in Jaime’s mind. It would be funny to hear her pleading for mercy, calling Jaime’s name as a God’s name, whilst he climbed down, finally free, four steps at a time. 

“Leave me here.” Brienne murmured, and her voice echoed softly from brick to brick, in a derisory sound. The wench loved to contradict him for the pure taste of contradiction, that was plain. “Pod can care about Bethany, whilst you and ser Addam run downstairs, and help the people outside. They need your help. Arya, Sansa…” Her voice broke. “I beg you, ser. Leave me here.”

Her hand had clutched his shirt at the word _ser_. Her hand, on his chest, freckled and warm, as if it wasn’t already a day too hot, in a week too hot. _Such a distracting hand. As Tyrion always says, Gods like confusing men when they need their wits the most_. _Or maybe, he was talking about whores, I don’t recall well. In every case, I’m doomed, I have to know._

“Spare me your queer fantasies, my lady, and tell me something important.” Many questions were crowding Jaime’s mind - how could that insolent maid dare to ask him to abandon her and become the protector of Ned Stark’s daughters, how could she even know Ned Stark’s daughters, and others - but those were lesser things, compared to the question that was making his heart bleed like a bride on her wedding night. “How can your hands be bigger than your father’s, wench?”

It was a serious question, Addam was really a jerk to chortle that way, even the singer made out a chocked laugh and Pod… the lad was surprising sometimes. Pod was guffawing. The wench became impossibly red, and tried to hide herself, hunching her shoulders, with the only result to unbalance them, and Jaime had to tighten his hold, forcedly - and she passed from red to crimson.

“Another of your damned tricks, my lady?” He laughed, and started again the descend, Addam and the lad immediately following. “First, a punch. Nothing special, but not that bad for a wench. Then, a pretty ambush by a bunch of outlaws. Nice gift, I like some skirmish from time to time, I thank you even if it wasn’t my name day.” Jaime was already panting, and he had made just a few steps. Of course, after all those days closed in a room, he needed some good sparring, the wench needed surely a lot of training, too. Not with him, obviously. For Gods’ sake, he was a knight of the Kingsguard, not a master-at-arms for inexperienced children. “And now, my lady, you’d like falling on the staircase, while a minute ago you’d liked staying and waiting for the Stranger to come.” He half-twisted to catch a glimpse of the others, and the wench’s hair swirled around in a silvery gold. “Can you imagine, Addam, the Kingslayer explaining the matter in front of Robert and his court of lickspittles? _The lady Brienne fell all by herself, Your Grace… She wanted to stay there, I tried to push some sense in her thick-head but you know how much stubborn and contentious the stormlanders can be_. What would the king do, then, Addam?”

“Don’t know, Jaime, and don’t care.”

“Charming point of view. From my point of view, yet, now that you've missed the occasion of leaving this sad world that the poison gave you, my lady, you’d be a very cruel wench, to die only to make the king putting my handsome face on an iron spike for having lost his precious ward.”

“Ward? Poison? I’ve never thought…”

“That my face is handsome? Oh, now you’re really hurting me, wench? You don’t need to be such rude, and I don’t need to end on a spike, unless it’s made in beaten gold. You know how it works with fathers, they’re fond of family traditions, always pressing for grand-children and similar shit. Mine is, at least. How about yours, my lady? Mind your step, Addam, next rise is half broken.”

“Thank you, _ser_ Jaime, and mind your tongue.”

“Addam, please remember to me why we’re supposed to be friends, when all this mess will be over… Quiet. Be quiet, all of you.”

With all their babbling, Jaime had almost been taken unaware. Voices. People hurrying on the stairs. Not the guards they had sent checking the walls. A red cloak would never call a lady by her name, even if the lady in question was a wench.

Notwithstanding the warm, she shivered in his arms. “I can’t believe it. He’s alive,” she whispered against Jaime’s neck.

“Who’s alive, wench? Friend of foe?” The voices were just a few steps from them, now. Addam was already with a hand on the hilt.

“A friend of mine,” she said, and dared a crooked smile. It was the first time he could see her smiling.

Whoever that friend was, Jaime already disliked him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this chapter a little polemic with the decisions made by the TV showrunners? Yes, it is. Because I can accept the death of a character I love (see Oberyn), but it must respect the character, and never, never be boring or, worse, innatural. If you're in a building that is collapsing, you run, you can take a breath and think for an instant, but you don't stay idle for centuries (you can't, as I learnt in 2016), the ones who stop are normally overwhelmed by panic, and decisively not in a romantic mood. 
> 
> PS: About the wench's hands. They're really bigger than Selwyn's ;)  
> 'Brienne said, "I remember a woman . . . she came from some place across the narrow sea. I could not even say what language she sang in, but her voice was as lovely as she was. She had eyes the color of plums and her waist was so tiny my father could put his hands around it. His hands were almost as big as mine." She closed her long, thick fingers, as if to hide them.'  
> ACOK, Catelyn (VI)


	98. The basket case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BRIENNE'S POV

The bearded man was stout, sweated and breathless, followed by another man, bald, bellied but easy-breathing.

“The Queen”, the first one panted, and half collapsed against the wall.

“The Queen?”, said the second, a flowery scent filling the staircase at his arrive.

“M'lord, please, make me room. Porther, for Gods' sake, let me...”, when an unruly mass of ginger hair showed from behind _Porther_ and the the bald man, Brienne sensed her lips curve in a smile, “...pass. You dumb, you're the more and more obsessed with your even dumber Queen...”, the red-haired guy lifted his eyes, and gaped. His arm was in a splint, she noticed with a sting of guilt.

“Nice to see you again, Anguy”, Brienne said.

“Wench?”, the archer grinned, and there they were, two familiar dimples that seemed careless about the shakes or about two-legged lions. She wondered if that was wise, before remembering that she was wearing just a shift, and the embarrassment took the place of the worry.

“Wench?”, roared the Kingslayer, and Brienne found herself thrusted brusquely into ser Addam's arms, like a basket of cabbages. “She's a highborn lady, scum. The Evenstar's daughter and heir to Evenfall Hall and Tarth, and the King's own ward”, he concluded, towering above Anguy, tension building up in the muscles of his back.

“Ser Jaime, forgive the poor boy”, the perfumed man broke in. His face wore no lines, and was no homely and no comely, just sooth, as a pallid porcelain mask. “He's simply glad to see that the lady Brienne has recovered, with a perfect timing, I'd say, and I'd add that no one is more pleased than me about it.”

“Lord Varys, no time for pleasantries, we need to get out of here, now.”

“Going outside? Ser Arys will have our heads, if we take her outside,” lamented the bearded man, suddenly pale.

“Outside?”, repeated the strangest lord Brienne had ever seen, resting the soft hands on his wide belly. “You shouldn't, ser Jaime, if I can offer you an advice.”

“Does this shitty staircase look like the fucking Small Council to you, my lord?” She felt ser Addam tense, as the Queen's brother went on speaking. “Don't need any advice, just that you kindly disappear. We have to pass, and your belly and your lovely pets are a nuisance.”

“A nuisance?”, someone said, whit a lord-like tone, and the heir to Ashemark smiled an apologetic smile as he carefully helped Brienne to sit on a step, her back leaned to the curving wall.

 _It seems that this tower is a bit too crowded with pets_ , the maid thought, and tried to remember whose voice was this one, frustrated by the dizziness which made small black dots dancing before her. _If only they stop bickering._ The bricks were soothing cool, and a snuffle of air brought her the promise of some rain. _Have you ever seen the rain?_ She wanted to ask Pod, to chase away the concern from his childish face. _Shining down on a sunny day? The rain, the real rain, washing away the dirt, the tiredness. There's a calm, before the storm, and then the calm, again._

She was so calm, now, and quiet. Finally invisible. No need to grasp her shoulders so savagely.

“Wench!” Brienne's eyelids were so heavy to lift, her sight was still a blur, yet the sparkle of gold and emeralds was unmistakable. “The Spider's right, you're bleeding.”

 _Just a bit, and better me than you,_ she thought, but the man didn't seem of the same advice, strangely.

“A scratch”, she croaked, and wondered how he could be so gentle now with his hands, when he had been so harsh, just a moment before. Maybe she was just imagining Jaime could be that gentle, and in the same way, she was just imagining that they were climbing up the stairs, now. It was a folly, it couldn't be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little easter egg, in this chapter, hope you enjoyed it.


	99. The dragon

KING'S LANDING - THE RED KEEP

Men and women were caught up in a growing, inexplicable frenzy - the more they climbed up the hill, the more the voices became hopeful, and dreadful, in the same time. When they arrived in front of the gate, there was already a mass of people gathered there, waiting for the King to order the terrified guards to raise the portcullis.

The King gave him a significative look, and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard obeyed, and shouted with all the strength of his lungs. Even so, his shout was a poor thing, in the thunderous turmoil. The portcullis was raised, however, and suddenly the Red Keep was a stranger place to ser Barristan.

It was hard to get oriented in that madness of bodies and expectations, with the dust transforming all faces in masks, identical masks of flesh and teeth. A rattle of chains alarmed the old knight, and he twisted on himself, seeing one of the condemned - the one with that queer hair, half red and half white – still alive, incredibly, and not far from the King. Ser Barristan hinted at reacting, but the Hand leaned towards him. “Not him. It was him who shouted and saved the Queen”, the Lord of Winterfell whispered in his ear, before changing into a salt statue.

Ser Barristan followed Stark’s fixed glance, and realized that they were just walking on the ruins of what had been the magnificent Tower of the Hand.

“Ned”, the King’s arm wrapped his friend’s shoulder, calm, steadying him, but the King’s voice was hoarse, hesitant. It was the first time Robert Baratheon sounded hesitant since he had met him, so much time before, and the knight felt again old, treacherously old, and useless, the way he had felt when ser Arys had almost died in his arms. 

His pale eyes begun running frantically. The Sept with its broken glassed looked like it had been slapped by a giant while Maegor’s Holdfast loomed in its glorious darkness, untouched, keeping the princes safe, and, behind it, the White Sword Tower was the same, thanking the Gods. Tall, slender, perfect.

Something shone from one of the windows of the Lord Commander’s apartment. _My apartments_ , ser Barristan recalled, grateful, and came back to his senses, only to realize, with horror, that he wasn’t at the King’s side, no more.

Someone touched his forearm, lightly. “Ser, have you seen Loras? Ser Loras, I mean. He was here, just an instant ago, but then I got distracted by the Hound, who was carrying on his shoulders a cat and a little she-wolf, and I turned to tell Loras that even Ned Stark has a heart, because he and his daughter were so sweet, embraced, only the cat seemed decisively annoyed, but Loras wasn't there, he was gone, I lost him among all this people, I lost Robert, I lost Brienne…” Lord Renly’s forehead was adorned with pearls of sweat, and his blue-green eyes were wandering, confused, as if he was having a waking dream.

“Follow me, my lord”, ser Barristan said, grabbing the youth, pushing someone and getting pushed. There was no room for unsheathing a blade, there was no room for anything, not even for a needle. “I know where they are,” he concluded, trying to be reassuring. At least, the Lord Commander knew where the flowing was dragging the King. The shouts left no doubts. “They’re going to the tower where lady Brienne rests.” _We’re all going to the lady Brienne, willing or unwilling._

“Brienne”, the young man smiled. A painfully beautiful smile. “She’s kind, and she loves me. We’ll wed soon and live happily ever after, all the three of us, even if Loras is a bit jealous. He can be such a foolish sometimes, but he’s only fifteen. Are you sure that Loras is well, ser? And Brienne? She also must be well.”

“She must”, Ser Barristan said, and it was a prayer, indeed. Because the smallfolk wanted the maiden to be well, needed her to be well, and the smallfolk was like a dragon of old. Wild, and deadly.

 _You can’t tame a dragon, you can just admire it,_ he thought as the crowd begun calling, and calling, even louder than before, covering the King's booming voice in the background, and now there was hardly the room for breathing, but Lord Renly was looking up and smiling an incredible smile, and a crone made out a high shriek, just an inch from the knight’s ear and he tilted his chin and followed the woman’s skeletal finger, and caught in his breath.

White wings were spreading in the wind, and the shine reverberated on them, almost blinding him.

The shine of gold, bronze, silver.

And blue. Blue above all. 


	100. For the hundredth time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JAIME'S POV

KING’S LANDING – THE RED KEEP – THE WENCH’S TOWER

“Can’t you be quicker, ser…?”, he asked sharply, showing his white teeth.

“Hyle, Hyle Hunt, ser,” the young man replied neutrally, fastening the gilded breastplate on Jaime’s right shoulder with sure, swift fingers. To be honest, Hyle the Cunt was quick, quicker than the bull that was helping Addam in his armor of burnished steel coated with bronze, but still not quick enough. The ants below were an army, now, thick and dark, moving crazy around the tower.

Jaime’s plan was also crazy, crazy enough that it might work. Seven was a good number, and seven valid men could do the difference. _With some luck, with some more weapons…_ At any _crack_ , their hopes grew thinner. It seemed that the wench collected jewels and precious cloths in the heavy dowry chests, like any other wench.

She was really defying his patience, the contemptuous maiden. She had found the time to scowl at him before fainting again, and only because he was scolding her for having gained a new, lovely cut on her forearm, and Gods, it was hard for Jaime to understand what had upset him the most – the scowling or the fainting or the wound she had took in his place. Such things were clearly inappropriate, and senseless. Greatly senseless, with an infuriated crowd shouting Brienne’s name. 

Who or what had lighted the fire below the pot was a mystery for Jaime, but the pot was clearly boiling. Ser Cunt and his idiotic friends had no great information to share. They had had nothing better to do in the morning than go enjoying the executions in Fishmonger’s Square in their best garbs, lightly armed because it was meant to be a feast, but something must have gone very, very bad, even before the shakes, so they had said, confusedly. If they'd have been Lannisters' scouts, Lord Tywin would have them all whipped, before hanging them. They had ridden back to the Red Keep before the crowd could throw them down the saddles, and, as soon as they got there, there they had been convinced that ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard wanted them to defend the wench.

 _Nought but foolish guys, believing to any lie, even the most implausible one,_ Jaime guessed, and he was still wondering if the liar was Anguy or Varys, or both, when the tall knight with the monkey made out a satisfied groan, interrupting Jaime’s thoughts, and emerging back from a chest, with two long daggers. When the reacher unsheathed them, he gasped: the steel shone dark, an unmistakable dark. Valyrian steel - perfect for opening breaches in walls of flesh and fleas.

“Ser Marbrant, take one of these daggers. Lord Caron, the second is for you,” Jaime stepped towards the young Lord of Nightsong, finally ready for the fight, the lion of his House roaring on his chest, If he had to die, Jaime wanted to die shining a Lannister gold. “As I told before, ser Addam and I, we will clean the path till Maegor’s Holdfast, but _you_ ’ll be at ser Bushy’s side, with ser Hunt and ser Mullendore, and Porther defending the rear with his axe.” Jaime drifted his glance from the wench, her eyes were still closed, yet his voice dropped to a murmur. “No need to tell you what to do with that steel, if the scum would get to overwhelm us and try to seize the lady from Ser Bushy’s arms.”

The fire-haired lord paled, and nodded, studying the ripples on the blade like a child studies the hymns for the Mother’s fortnight, looking decisively young. They were all so young, and green, damn them all. Jaime exchanged a quick glance with Addam, and Addam silently answered that yes, these boys had never been in a real battlefield, and the northman was even a bit on his cups, yet…

“I’ve found something, ser,” said Pod, without stammering.

The lad had the curious habit to rediscover his tongue, when pressured. One day, he would make a good knight, but first he had to survive, so his place, no matter what he’d said or he’d say, was in the tower, along with the harpist – Jaime gave a damn about the sort of the eunuch and the wench’s fucking friend. Anguy-no-House. Hateful. Him and his dimples were even more hateful than the Spider, and that was quite an endeavor. Moreover, Jaime had never seen someone more useless than an archer with a broken arm. He rolled his green eyes, as the ginger guy raised from the chair near the wench’s bed, to admire the weirwood longbow that the Payne squire had leant to his skinny shoulder, hopeful.

“Thank you, Pod, no way to use it, unfortunately,” Jaime had to conclude, and the lad looked miserable.

“Can I have a look, ser?”, the Spider broke in, and appropriated the longbow, a strange sparkle in his round eyes, lasting no more than a heartbeat. “Show me where you’ve found it, lad.”

The wench had begun moving, slowly, buried under a ton of sheets. Her eyes met his, but his were still filled with the the brown and the muddy grey replacing the ruined pink of the cobblestones, and Jaime swallowed, even if there was no time to swallow nor answer to her unspoken questions. In every moment, the ants could pass the tower gate, and, then, they would have slowed them for a while on the stairs, because a man can stand a dozen from an upper step, but the ants were too many, too many. Maegor’s Holdfast was Brienne’s only possibility – if ser Meryn would have let them pass from the postern gate. Jaime was not that sure about it, but there was no time to brood, and he was a lion. _Lions don’t brood._

“Time to go, sers.”

“No, time to stay, and live.” In the silence following Jaime’s words, the Spider’s voice had the force of a hundred thunders, even if the soft man was whispering, as usual. Or maybe it was the sword he had in his smooth fingers to cry a thousand cries of war. The hilt had an elegance out of time, and the blade, the blade was black as a night that had swallowed all the stars. The eunuch made it swing in the suffocating air, and he seemed no more a eunuch. “This is… unexpected. They wrote that it had been brought to the Wall by his last owner, and lost there. They were wrong, I was wrong, and that's weird, and funny, isn't it, my lady?” Varys laughed, a surprisingly rich, warm laugh, and Jaime realized with a shiver that he had never heard the Master of Whisperer laugh, not even once. The Spider usually smiled, and lied as he breathed, and both his breathes and his smiles were thin and superficial. “ _Dark Sister_ , never a name was more appropriate,” the perfumed man added, and finally he did shut up.

 _Dark sister_. Jaime seized the blade, and its lack of weight let him bewildered. _It can't be, yet how many Valyrian swords can be such a... beauty?_ The roaring dragon on the hilt had mismatched gems for eyes, but the imperfection made it even more unique. Jaime turned towards the wench - she had frozen, her bare feet on the carpet, her eyes wide, with the sapphire sparkle of the dragon's right eye, her lip red like the ruby of the dragon's left eye, in the point where she had bitten it.

Another _scratch_.

Jaime had enough of the Maid of Tarth and her scratches.

The stubborn wench was reciprocating his feelings, judging from the way she refused his hand, flinching away as if she was able to flinch away without crumbling miserably back on the pillow in a cloud of feathers and freckles, Gods be blessed for having created the island of Tarth and all the happy people singing outside.

A nod, and the knight from House Bushy lifted Brienne with an enviable ease. He was even taller than her and Robert, the stout man, and grinned stupidly like a dull stormlander when she became poppy red.

“Follow me, and don’t spare your strength. Any step, a blow. We’re leaving, now”, Jaime repeated. _Not you_ , he was on the verge to add, glaring at the self-declared archer, but the Spider suddenly forgot who he was, and who Jaime was.

“I don’t think it would be wise, ser”, Varys stated, with no emotions, as if he was talking of choosing between a nice walk or a nicer ride, his smooth hands trafficking in another huge chest. His fingers moved so quickly that he really looked like a spider, a spider with ice instead of blood.

“You can stay, eunuch, if it pleases you.” Addam was ready, so lord Caron with his sharp sword unsheathed, and ser Mullendore was greeting his monkey, a black and white furred thing with a long, curling tail. Ser Hunt was lingering, instead – he was definitely a cunt. 

“You can go, ser. The lady stays, yet,” Varys said, and the scum named Anguy made a foxy smile. “She needs to be combed, and a proper garb, that's evident”, the bold bald man explained and it was so absurd that Jaime had to contemplate the Valyrian darkness in his hand to be sure that things were effectively going the way they were going. Somehow, a brush was already in the Spider's hand, and he had something voluminous under his left arm. A cloak, it was a cloak.

 _A maiden's cloak_ , Jaime realized, when Pod helped Varys spreading it on the bed. A majestic crescent moon was embroidered in cloth-of-silver, embracing and protecting a sun which rays, in shaped studs of beaten gold, were drowned in rose petals in mother-of-pearls and pale corals, and both moon and sun formed a circle floating in a sea of sapphires, lapis-lazulis and some rare diamonds - dark blue diamonds from the lost Silver Sea, once the Andals’ realm, and now part of the Dothraki lands, in Essos. _Any of those diamond is worth a kingdom_ , he judged.

The stunned silence that shrouded the room made the roar of the crowd invade again the room, from the open window, and Jaime slammed it closed, angrily. The wench had the nerve to scowl at him. For the hundredth time. At him, once the heir to the Rock, and the Kingslayer. Who did the Tarths think they were, if not some petty kings of old with more ambitious memories than future? The cloak was terribly old, and smelling dust, and too long, as if it had been sewed for a creature half-way between a woman and a goddess.

It looked ludicrous on Brienne's broad shoulders. Too imposing, too shining. Why weren't they all chuckling? She wasn't a fucking queen - thanking the Gods - only an ugly wench, fit for some ugly breeches, and no brush or costly hairnet could change the flax of her hair into something different from a maddening, desperate tangle.

“End immediately this game, Varys”, Jaime commanded, but the eunuch ignored him and adjusted better the hairnet, which wasn't effectively a hairnet. It looked more a heavy necklace, alternating star sapphires and emeralds, and with a hideous silvery glamour. _A crown should be of gold_ – the thought fled his mind as rapid as he had come, worthy of the fool Jaime was changing into. The consequences of his fall, in the morning, probably. Or of the Spider's perfume, venom in the foul air of a too crowded room.

“I apologize, ser Jaime, but when the people ask for bread you can't serve them cake,” the Master of Lies glanced to the wench, her hair loose and almost dry, almost soft, almost silver. It was the necklace's fault. “You must give them bread, and the Maid of Tarth is a very convincing loaf, white and freshly baked, for what my humble eyes can see. Time to climb up to the roof, my lord of Nightsong, ser Bushy.”

Lord Bryce Caron’s sword was still unsheathed, vibrant with steel in the sun, whilst the stormlander followed the Spider and the big knight carrying the wench. The other two reachers shared a look, and went behind the marcher Lord, the hands on the hilts of their respective blades. No one of them wore more than a light chainmail under the silks, and Jaime was suddenly curious to test their skills. Addam anticipated him, though.

“If so, I claim this honor”, said the heir to Ashemark, sternly, leaving no room for any reply. “Some few steps more won’t harm us, Jaime, and if it works…”, Addam whispered in Jaime’s ears, already panting for the weight of the wench and her moth-eaten cloak, as soon as the kingsguard reached his friend’s side, with the lad.

 _If it doesn’t work, if the ants break into the tower whilst we’re still playing our pretty farce on the roof…_ Jaime refused to conclude the reasoning. He felt her eyes on his back, and every step became a mountain to climb. She had the decency of remain quiet, at least. He liked her the most when she was quiet, well, liked was a big word, for a big, big wench. She just exhaled, shielding her face from the merciless light with Addam’s cloak, a bronze and grey silk, when they faced the immensity of the sky above, and the threat of the dark clouds below. _The leaves of the burning tree of the Marbrand etched upon the breastplate have left a sign on her cheek,_ Jaime noticed, and for a while the chaos settled. Inside him, at least.

“We need a chair, a bench, something”, protested someone. Probably it was the short man with a scar, Hyle something. The cunt was right, however - the crenellated wall was hiding them, the Spider had forgot they needed a stage to perform. She was calm, incredibly calm, it was the southron knights to jerk and curse, the northman and the archer had lost their tongue, as the wooden-and-iron gate started lamenting, a high, creaking sound. Like ice breaking, and Jaime wasn’t eager to sink in gelid waters.

He climbed on one of the merlon. It was large enough, solid enough, and Addam would have supported him as usual, just a bit more literally – and they had to try, or die in the attempt.

“Trust me, my lady”, Jaime said,

and then her hand was in his hand,

and then Brienne was again in his arms,

a bundle of white and blue and ragged breaths, the stupid night gown and the even more stupid cloak filling with salty air like sails, some clouds throwing themselves from the sky or maybe it was the contrary - and the color of the sea was a concept that Jaime’s mind had never considered till that moment, the moment in which the wench looked straight in his eyes, her hair wrapping the world in a soft smelling shine that seemed almost silver, that the finally silent scum might exchange for silver… but that was gold, pale gold, white gold.

The infinite gold of the sun foundering in the sea, one misty morning - and foundering was sweet in such a sea. 


	101. Drops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BRIENNE'S POV

She didn’t know what to think. It was all too fast, too difficult, with too many people, and her head was throbbing.

Brienne struggled to recognize her father, and Renly, too – all useless. They seemed so tiny, all of them, smaller than the sweat drop rolling on Jaime’s cheek. She was tempted to touch it. He had the hint of a stubble and she was tempted to touch it, too, to see if it was made of gold or simply gilded like the armor.

It was made of gold, soft gold.

His eyes widened, and more sweat drops appeared on his brow. She was sweating, too - it was very warm, and the cloak was old and so heavy, and with the rain it would become even heavier. She told him.

“Rain?”, he laughed. “Wench, the sun has incinerated what was left of your already scarce wits.”

Brienne was too tired to argue, but she was from the Stormlands, and knew only a few things better than the rain. She lifted her arm, her hand open, and caught the first drop falling from the sky. The second fell on Jaime’s lower lip, and she closed her eyes, not wanting to think about it.

A few minutes later, the storm had washed away any strange thought, and she was soaked wet, thankful that the sun was still warming her, thankful that the silence was gone, replaced by music.

“What are they singing, ser?” she asked, her eyes still closed.

“A song, wench. Just a song.”


	102. The calm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NED'S POV

KING’S LANDING – THE RED KEEP

“Oh, Father, you see, Queens wear gems, not breeches,” Sansa murmured against his neck, and Eddard of the House Stark of Winterfell, felt as small as a boy compared to the Wall.

He thought about Jon, he thought about Bran, and Robb and Rickon, and the ugly cat in Sansa’s arms seemed suddenly so alike Rickon’s direwolf. They were both black, like Jon’s cloak.

_Again Jon. Again the sound of that damned harp._

Ned gave up the effort of making sense of what was happening around him. He just wanted back Jon, he wanted back Lyanna, and the gleam in the king’s eyes revealed to Ned that Robert was thinking about Lyanna, too. For an instant, Ned believed that Robert was crying - it was hard to tell.

_Tears go lost in rain._

_“...for she was a living secret", someone started sing. Many others followed "...she was his light, his bliss…”_

_Secrets go lost in time, as all the secret keepers die_.

_"…and a vow and a cloak are nothing, compared to a maiden’s kiss…”_

_Only songs remain._

“… _For hands of gold are always cold, but a woman’s hands are warm…”_

_Only no one knows what the songs mean. If I would have known what that song really meant for Lyanna…_

“Father, you will tell Arya, won’t you? About the sapphires, about the rain.” Sansa was looking at him with eye as big as plates. Her mother’s eyes, only larger. Her mother's hair, now wet and darker than usual, but always bright as copper in the sunlight.

He nodded, and resolved to move towards ser Barristan and Renly. Renly, like Robert, was still staring at the tower top, and when young Loras Tyrell reached him and kissed him, Ned feigned not to have seen. It wasn’t so important, in the end, and Sansa hadn’t noticed it, at all, his sweet, dreamy Sansa. She was still humming the song, even now that it had ended, and it was again possible to walk. The crowd had dispersed, just a few people remained, scattered, quiet. The red cloaks and the gold cloaks were on control, now.

Ser Jacelyn was hurrying in Ned’s direction, and Ned understood it was about Arya.

Arya was in Baelor’s Sept, a broken leg and some scratches, but she was safe. 

A prentice smith had saved her.

The thought of Arya being saved by a prentice smith was as unbelievable as Sansa’s tales about birds and cats. Arya wasn’t the kind of girl eager to be saved by someone. Ned felt a bit sorry for the prentice smith, and guilty. Cat had tasked him the care of his daughters, and he had almost lost Arya, and lied to Sansa. Because he had no intention to tell Arya about gems, queens or breeches and, most of all, about the rain.

Only Gods knew what Arya would have said and done, if he’d tell his little she-wolf that he had seen a girl wave her hand in the air and make it rain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is the canon "Hands of Gold", with a few variations - I know it's Tyrion's, but it fits both Lannister Bros, for me. 
> 
> Here's my favorite version, by Peter Hollens:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bdmh9eRUz8g


	103. The importance of the rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TYRION'S POV

It was raining. Beyond the Wall.

Tyrion looked up, for the seventh time, and saw no clouds among the shimmering tops of the trees, only the sun, pale like a moon and mulish like the lad. Unconscious, Jon gritted his teeth, and it seemed almost a smile, a torn smile.

“He’s fighting, Pypar,” Tyrion said. “He won’t give up that easily, Starks are hard to kill, you know.”

Pyp sniveled, his face white and purple, Grenn just let the snot run down the ruin of his nose. _We’re all making a truly miserable spectacle_ , Tyrion assumed, sensing the skin stretch and burn, where a spider had hit him. It ached terribly, but it was not that bad, in the end. If Pyp hadn’t warned him with a scream, Tyrion would have lost more than an eye.

His green eye, damn every snark of that hell called world. He couldn't open it, but he had still the black one – his father would have been delighted. The less the dwarf resembled a Lannister, the more Lord Tywin would be glad.

_I’ll shave my hair, or dye them black, all black, to conceal the few blond strands. Oh, I’m such a dutiful son, indeed, so careful about Father’s wellness. I do deserve the Rock, I really do. Tyrion, the Black Dread, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport and Warden of the West, and, why not? Hand of the King, one day, if I get out this charming forest. One-eyed men make great Hands, and Brynden Rivers is rumored of having bedded Shiera Sea Star, the most beautiful woman of his time._

He sneered, and came out half a sneer and half a sob, that scared some tiny animal, a sort of rabbit, with a white, fluffy fur. Even the rabbit had survived the ice spiders, so they were five survivors, in total, if Jon would be polite and resist another bit, like a respectful little wolf of Winterfell.

Pypar gasped, but Tyrion was relieved to see the men that were advancing on the snow, slow, determinate, armed of bows, daggers and spikes. Jon needed help, they all needed help - the probabilities that those wildings might help them were feeble like a candle in the obscurity of the Rock caves, yet a candle was better than nothing.

The Imp smiled to his new friends. A dozen men, and a couple of spearwives, sweating under their too thick furs. _The women are both young, and both pretty, if you forgive them the lack of a proper acquittance with water and soap._ At this point of his travel to the end of the world, Tyrion would have forgiven a girl everything.

It was the prettiest one of the women who talked first. “How could you survive the spiders, crows?”

“It was the rain. It melted them”, answered Green before Tyrion could intervene. It was a good boy, that Aurochs - good for nothing, unable to understand that the truth wasn’t always the best option, like that lackwit of Jon’s direwolf, already snarling. The rain made him stink like a sewer, and Tyrion regretted not to have lost his nose, instead of his eye.

“The rain. Is this _water_ the rain? I thought the sky was weeping”, said the second woman, her eyes suddenly so bright. Now she looked almost beautiful, notwithstanding that mop of dirty, reddish hair. Maybe even Jaime’s wench had eyes bright and innocent like those ones.

“Who called the rain, crows?”, broke in a man with a pleasant mask of yellowed bones. A man who needed to put something hideous on his face to look dangerous. A sly one. A coward, who would sell his mother for a penny, or for a whore, or for the glamour of some power. The kind of men Tyrion Lannister loved the most. He laughed a Jaime-like laugh, and the coward turned towards him. “It was you, dwarf”, the wilding decided, and why should Tyrion break his heart?

Lord Tywin had taught the Castameres the importance of the rain, and Tyrion was his heir, so it didn’t seem even a lie, when he bowed, and claimed for himself the power of the Storm God.


	104. Roles and decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CERSEI'S POV

KING'S LANDING - THE RED KEEP - THE QUEEN'S APARTMENT IN MAEGOR'S HOLDFAST

When she walked inside Maegor's Holdfast the moon was high in the sky, and the world had gone quiet, very quiet. The children were already abed, and that annoyed her.

“Cersei,” said Robert. He wasn't abed with one of his whores, and he was even sober – that annoyed her, too, more then she might tell. She needed to bath, and change into a fresh gown. The dirt itched her delicate skin, and, after having spent all those hours in the crowded Sept, she stank of poorness. She wasn't in the mood to bear even the stink of that boar of her husband, now.

“Robert,” she simply answered, with a tone enough cold to chill any unrequited lust. A second, more accurate glance told her it wasn't necessary. The King had no intention to claim his rights – since they had left Winterfell he never asked for her, and Cersei was only grateful about it.

The expression in Robert's eyes was quite new, in truth. “It's nice to see you're well, Cersei,” he told her, after a while, and waited, a step closer to her. Robert might wait for the Wall to crumble, for all Cersei cared about. He still wore the doublet he had in the morning, blooded and torn. It disgusted her.

“You should have changed your clothes,” she stated, and poured herself a drink. She had a thirst, and he had, too – for a moment, Robert seemed on the point to reach the jug and drink directly from it, soaking his despicable beard with the strong Dornish, as he was used to do, only to spite her.

Robert grimaced, instead of drinking, and recoiled. “I had better things to do, Cersei.”

“Since your men have been so good and gentle to let the scum invade the Red Keep.”

He laughed, harsh. It was a strange laugh, on him. “But, thanking the Gods, there was your lovely brother to settle anything, is this what you want to say?”

_Jaime?_ She leaned from the open window, to breath the moist air and hide her confusion. In the Sept, waiting for the stubborn ser Preston to decide when it was finally time to leave all those lovely preachers and sanctimonious, Littlefinger had delighted the Queen with the description of the giantess of Tarth combed and dressed like a lady – ‘ _a great lady, they say she looked like a new Vysenia, Your Grace_ ’, repeated the lady Tanda in Cersei’s memory. The lady Tanda was growing more and more dumb with the age, she didn’t even realize it was all a masquerade to trick the smallfolk, with the eunuch's own mark, obviously. _Not Jaime’s, for sure. For him the entire universe begins and ends with his sword hand._

“I just say that the Maid of Tarth should have awaken a day earlier, and spare all of us a lot of troubles, don't you agree?”, Robert darkened, and suddenly his eyes were very blue. “About this Brienne,” Cersei went on, smiling, “now that she’s fine, wed her to Renly, and free Jaime from that ridiculous task.”

“The lady Brienne is still recovering.”

“Oh. So, it’s sadly true. She’s no more fit for carrying precious stags into this awful world, no doubts her sullen father will bring her back home, and wed her to some other shambling islander, just not to make his house die. Any peasant will make her happier than Renly would, that's certain. Again, you should free Jaime from that ridiculous task.”

“Quite a good advice. You know, Cersei, ser Barristan, the Hand and even Lord Varys asked me to do the same thing,” Robert added, pensive, brushing his beard. She really detested his beard, dark as a pit, and rough. Rhaegar would never go unshaven like a beggar. “The Hand has even asked me to pardon the man who shouted and caught my attention about…”

“…about the one who wanted to present me his regards? Robert, what a pity, you were far too distracted by a few shakes. A Queen should expect something more from a king, even a poorly made one.”

“It was me to kill the scum who was threatening you, Cersei.” Robert’s eyes were really blue, now. Darker than Renly’s or Stannis’, almost purple. He would have hated it, if he knew, as the boar he was. She emptied the silver goblet, and loose her hair. It always made some effect on him, even after all those years of marriage. Even Jaime loved her long, shining hair.

“Am I supposed to thank you for that?”, she asked, and the sarcasm in her voice made him stop walking towards her.

“Certainly not, my sweetheart.”

His foot was already out of her bedroom, when Robert hesitated, looking at her with something which resembled to pure mirth.

“What?”, she inquired, a bit raucous.

“Rethinking about ser Jaime, I believe his place is near the Evenstar’s daughter by now.”

It stunned her. The Robert she knew liked hunting, and let all the boring decisions to his councilors. “Why?” The question raised spontaneous from her lips. “If even your beloved homeless Ned…” 

“Ned is wise, but he’s just the Hand. You know, my sweetheart, it’s up to the King to make such decisions”, he paused, and the wine went sour in Cersei’s mouth, “and even a poorly made King must decide with his own wits, from time to time.”

The goblet hit a door which was already closed. 


	105. The sieged man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JAIME'S POV

THE RED KEEP – THE WENCH'S TOWER

  
  


One siege had ended, one new siege had begun.

After the Spider had left with Lord Caron and the other intruders, Jaime counted at least four maesters in addition to the decrepit Pycelle and his shocked beard, then the Septon of the royal Sept, a dozen Septas and many other meddlers.

Luckily no stag had showed up. Ser Cunt, who seemed to know everything and more, told his monkey-lover friend that Renly had been put to bed with a nice cup of sweet milk, as a nice child, and, preceding Jaime of half a minute, the Evenstar had chased till the stairs the damned lickspittles in a fit of rage deign of a Storm King.

Only lovely Septa Roelle and her sister had been spared, and they were now sobbing of relief in Lord Selwyn's chamber, so even the wench's father had lost his bed.

 _Practically half the realm has lost his bed, and the Red keep has become a camp. This room has become a camp_. Jaime's cushioned chair was still still Jaime's, and he had allowed Addam to sleep on the wench's, at his side. The lad, Podrick, was snoring softly at the foot of Brienne's bed: the Evestar had eased him sideways, before falling asleep at his turn, reclined on the mattress with half of his huge body.

If not for the the star-light, in the room it was dark, dark like the sword still in his hands, but Jaime was sure the wench wasn't sleeping. She had been sleeping enough, in truth, and, in the quiet night, he could distinguish the sound of her fingers passing softly through her father's hair.

Jaime was brushing the silver-and-leather scabbard, instead, feeling the incisions under his thumb. A raven for ser Brynden Rivers, a sea-star for his lover and half-sister, the lady Shiera, and a tiny gilded crown which had been surely added in a second time. Some House of low rank, wanting to claim the blade with which Queen Visenya conquered the seven kingdoms at King Aegon's side. _Or some decayed House, not disdaining to welcome the bastard whelp of two bastards. Two of the Great Bastards_ , Jaime corrected himself, a weird sensation in his guts. Obviously the wench had nothing to do with Brynden Rivers or his mistress, she couldn't. Bloodraven had consumed his last days at the Wall, for having murdered a guest - a damned Blackfire, but still a guest. The lady Shiera was known for her beauty and her skill with the dark arts.

_No, it can't be. The wench is.. the wench. Ugly, but honest. Straight as an arrow. And nothing of exceptional, if not for her being so exceptionally boring, with her dulnesses. Why does she need to say certain things?_

“Wench, you should really dust off your wits, before opening your too large mouth”, he replied, low voice, not desiring to wake up everyone.

“But ser...”

“I did it on the King's behalf, and only because I easily get bored.” In the silence that followed, Jaime could almost hear the sound of her lashes whipping the night. Such an annoying sound. “Disappointed, wench? What were you thinking? That I put my life at risk because I dreamed of you, maybe?”

She inhaled sharply, and that was all. Necessarily. Jaime had never dreamed of her, never. The dream he did have in the bath didn't count, it was surely another wench, and he was no more thinking about it, certainly not.

The stars were beginning to be decisively too shimmering, making him feel a fool who blamed the stars for who knows what.

“Thank you, all the same, ser,” she whispered in the exact moment he was closing his eyes, and there was no more need of mocking stars to make Jaime feel a perfect fool.


	106. The ribbon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BRIENNE'S POV

THE RED KEEP - THE TOWER WHERE THE KING HAD CONFINED HER

She darted her eyes around the chamber, and met Pod's shy smile with another shy smile.

“Your lord Father is with the Hand, my lady, whilst ser Jaime has been summoned by his Lord Commander”, said Jaime's friend, the knight of Ashemark, and Septa Roelle rolled her eyes at Jaime's name. _Not Jaime, ser Jaime. The Kingsl... The Queen's brother_.

“They will come back soon,” intervened septa Donyse, with her ringing voice, gaining a scowl from her sister. Both the Septas had become so gaunt, apart that, they hadn't changed. “The Hand has occupied all the rest of tower with his household, except for the our floor and the chambers just downstairs, destined to the white cloaks.”

Brienne blinked, and it was ser Addam who started explaining. “The White Sword Tower has been damaged, my lady. Too many fissures, and something else has happened in the Lord Commander's room, but we're not supposed to talk about it, I fear. It's such a nice morning, and it's past time you break your fast.”

“Oh, yes, eat, dress and comb your hair, before lord Renly comes to visit you!” , exclaimed Septa Donyse, and Brienne felt red and, somehow, ashamed. The butterflies in her stomach had fangs, instead of the usual soft wings, but love was still a new thing for her. “Your hair have grown so much, my lady. ”

It had, and it was a mystery. Brienne had never had a mane long till her waist, and she hoped it wouldn't be a problem whilst training.

“Too much. It was hard to keep them decent even before,” lamented Septa Roelle, turning against ser Addam. “Now, ser, I have to understand how the lady is supposed to dress with you and lad lingering here.”

The knight grinned, and grasped Podrick's shoulders to made him twist on himself, then turned on his own heels, so that they were both facing the door in the end. “On my honor, we will steal no glances.” The mirth in ser Addam's voice was so evident that Brienne wondered if honor was such a funny notion in the Westernlands.

***  
  


Her stomach made embarrassing noises, and the soup smelled good on the round table, but Septa Donyse was still working on Brienne's head. One only braid, turning and turning, pinned with some stinging stuff to the innocent skin below all those straw – Brienne must cut all those pale wool, the sooner the better.

“What's this smell? Soup?”, said a known voice, and ser Jaime of the Kingsguard made his entrance, and what an entrance. Even ser Addam looked almost a plain man, compared to him. “Pod, go and tell the cooks that they can give this schlop to the pigs or the northmen two flights below, and have the servants bring steaks, no, horse meat is better, some bushmeat, too, cakes, fruits and wine. A good vintage from the cellars, the best they can offer to the King's ward.”

“Jaime, yesterday the Great Maester suggested something light to begin with.”

“Pycelle? The old man also suggested to chose the burial hymns for the lady, so, Addam, I don't give a ...”

“Ser!”

“Oh, I forgot we have the pleasure to have again the two holy sisters with us, along with the great lady, of course,” Jaime tilted his head as he noticed her. “Are you sure that braid won't break your neck, my lady? Your neck is thick as one of Pod's thigh, yet that braid seems very heavy, and that ribbon...”

“What's wrong with the ribbon, ser?”, asked Septa Donyse, apprehensive. “It's pure silk embroidered with cloth-of-silver and amethysts, Lord Renly sent it in the early morning.”

“Wrong colors. Or maybe it's the face underneath which is wrong”, he chuckled. “You should seem happier to meet your betrothed, my lady, even if he's a moron.” Brienne scowled, with the only effect to made him look unbearably pleased. Jaime's eyes shone a very green and very smug shine, when finally a bunch of servants brought up the equivalent of a dozen guests dinner.

Without a warning, the kingsguard emptied the space between them and slid his right arm around her waist, forcing her to go on her feet and stand. They almost fell, her legs still not wanting to cooperate. She had to cling at his neck, slipping one of her arm around it.

“Fuck. Can you move your legs, wench?”, he pressed Brienne. _Again wench_ _._ Lady was a title wasted on her, but wench.

“I can, but they're like wax.” _My arms are like melting wax, too. My hands have no a decent grip._

“Remember when you broke your leg falling from that wild horse, Jaime? When it healed, it was so thin and pale, to seem made of wax, as the Lady says.”

Septa Roelle smiled at ser Addam – she was so handsome when she smiled, but it happened so rarely. “Of course. It just a matter of time, the Mother above is generous and compassionate.”

“The Mother above should be less busy in listening prim people, and quicker, or you'll have to pray for my back, too”, Jaime let her fall unceremoniously on the chair, and took the sit at her right, snorting. “Now eat, my lady.”

She cut the first piece of meat, and was helping it to her mouth with the silver fork, when her tireless guardian grasped her forearm. Brienne watched the succulent bite end in his perfect jaws, and struggled not to use the knife in her right hand.

“The King ordered me to taste whatever you decide to eat before you can eat it, my lady”, he said, still chewing.

“You should have cut a piece when it was still on the plate,” Brienne protested, vehemently, before Septa Roelle could say anything worse.

“It must be from your own piece of meat, necessarily. Not that I'm glad about it”, his lie was so blatant that even his copper-haired accomplice looked elsewhere. Ser Jaime found it all clearly amusing, that was plain. She must be such a sight, flustered and with her crooked teeth in full display.

She jerked free of his grasp, and he found even that amusing. The morning air entered mild from the arched windows, and Brienne realized to be in a trouble, in a great trouble. She smiled, sincerely relieved, when Renly came, his doublet showing the same colors of the ribbon in her hair, his kiss letting a sweet, invisible mark on her sweated palm.


	107. The remains of the Kingsguard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SER ARYS' POV

THE RED KEEP – THE MAIDEN'S TOWER

“I never wanted to intrude in your own place, my lord. I just needed to look from one of the windows of your apartment, and see if her tower was still there...”

“Her?” Ser Barristan lifted his eyes, and ser Arys felt naked. 

“The Maid of Tarth, ser.” There was music, now, coming from upstairs - from her room. Both the knights kept silent, and let the song sooth their wounds.

If ser Arys was still wrapped in a ton of bandages, his Lord Commander looked unusually rough. At the very least the great knight needed a very long and very deep sleep. _Ser Jaime, it's never easy to reason with a Lannister,_ he considered. _Ser Mandon Moore, and his betrayal, and now this new blow to our brotherhood._

Ser Boros Blount – only Boros Blount since a few hours before, shame of the Kingsguard, stripped of his spurs and his rank for his cowardice. In truth, ser Arys had always thought that the bellied man wasn't worth of the white cloak, but he wasn't surely happy with what had happened. Queen Vysenia had cleverly convinced King Aegon to create the Kingsguard, and, since then, any member who had been elevated to it had served the King till his last breath. The glorious tradition had been ripped off, like an useless rag, and ser Arys' heart was bleeding.

“I didn't summon you to ear again your apologies, ser,” recommenced ser Barristan as the harpist made a pause. “About the man you surprised in my chamber, it was your duty to slain him.” It had been all so quick. The thief, or the murderer, was already in the room when ser Arys had entered, and had just the time to pull out a knife before the kingsguard hit him clumsily, using his left arm. If the man hadn't moved, all of sudden, ser Arys's blow would have missed him, and instead he had pierced his chest, and a lung, judging from the mix of blood and bubbles. “A pity we don't know who the man was, or why he was interested in that book. It isn't even a book, just the diary of a sea captain.” The Lord Commander sighed. “A sea captain from Tarth,” he added, quietly.

A thousand emotions melted ser Arys' spine, he had to lean against the wall. Ser Barristan offered him a chair, looking more worried, than annoyed with him.

“I should let you rest, ser, and recover, I'm sorry,” the seasoned knight claimed, and silenced ser Arys' protests with a gesture. “Yet I'm too in need of you, ser. We're left in five to protect the King. Ser Preston has been seen too many times near a certain draper shop, and can be easily manipulated. Ser Meryn is a creature of the Queen, and, for what I could see in Fishmonger's square, I'm quite sure that the High Septon was on the verge to accuse the Queen of having ordered the lady Brienne's poisoning. No need to tell why I don't trust ser Jaime, regardless of his blood ties.”

“I was told ser Jaime has been very dutiful in protecting the King's ward.”

“Dutiful, ser Jaime? Who told it? That Anguy, or the one from the Hand's household who's always in his cups?“

“Anguy claims that he knows the Evenstar's daughter, and Porther is honest and brave. They both care about her, for strange it may be.”

The Lord Commander studied him, his eyes narrowed. “Her”, he said, somber, and the younger knight wished to vanish, but the Gods above weren't clement with him. “Listen to me, listen to an old man who has served three kings, growing up in the shadow of men like ser Duncan the Tall, or the Prince of Dragonflies… Duncan the Small, they called him, but he was half a Blackwood and very tall, even taller than me, did you know?” 

“No, ser. I just knew it was him to name you Barristan the Bold.”

“I was just a child, and at that time the Dragon King was really a great King, one of the greatest. Summerhall… Well, we're not here to brood about the past. I need you, to replace the Kingslayer at the lady’s side, as soon as the King will change his mind. In the night the Queen has convinced His Grace to let ser Jaime with the maid, but the Hand agrees with me, she’s not safe in Lannister’s claws. The book, the Tarth captain’s diary, I found it in the apartment formerly occupied by Lord Selwyn and his daughter, and the King’s squire has confirmed me that ser Jaime obliged the Great Maester to consign it to him, along with many other papers, all about Tarth.” 

Ser Arys was literally breathless. “I’m ready, ser, ready to serve.” _Bandages or not._

“I had no doubts about you, ser. House Oakheart is known for its loyalty. Recover a bit more, and I’ll put you in the Lady Brienne’s escort, with ser Jaime, if not in his place. Till then, I need your eyes, and your wits. Read the diary for me, relate me about anything odd, or simply curious. And about the boy, Anguy, or the northman, they’re both good people, mayhap, but don’t trust them, don’t trust anyone, ser. You can’t trust anyone when it comes to dragons.”

“Dragons, ser?”

Ser Barristan smiled, a sad, lost smile. “Dragons, ser. I might be old but I still recognize a dragon when I see one of them.”


	108. The Bravoosi way of smiling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ARYA'S POV

THE RED KEEP - BRIENNE'S TOWER

The Bravoosi swordman had a very particular way of smiling. Arya liked it, or simply liked the fact he was going to let her eavesdrop. Better than this - he was going to eavesdrop with her.

“We don't get to choose who we love, lord Hand. Brienne's mother, she was... incredible. I tried not to fall for her, she was too young, and good. And beautiful, she had flames instead of hair, her eyes were large and blue, sometimes so clear to be almost transparent, sometimes so dark to resemble a river rapids. I still dream of her, ser, have you ever dreamed of spring? She even smelled of spring. Oh, she wasn't perfect, of course not. Mulish and unpredictable. I'm not a man who yield so easily, me neither. I rejected her, at first, she was meant for the Prince, not for me, so I ignored my heart and left her safely in Bravoos...”

Arya glimpsed at Syrio's face. He had again that smile.

“...only to found her on my ship. She never explained how she got there, she didn't talk too much, in truth. Alyssa preferred singing. Her voice... She was raised and trained by the Moonsingers, at their Temple. You know, Brienne reminded me of her, when she was a child, and still liked singing. This was before Galladon's death.”

“I'm sorry, my lord.”

There was a silence, a silence so stuffed with suffering, that Arya shivered, and her damned leg sent a painful sting up her spine. Stupid, unforgivable leg – she would have torn it apart with her teeth, and limped away gladly, instead of bearing this heavy splint and being forced to waste her dancing lesson time listening to such a conversation between two old people.

 _Even Father seems a century old, when he struggles to act as Hand of the Boar. Or when he thinks about Bran, and that's a thing I can't stand, Father should be happy, Bran is alive when he might be gone like Brienne's brother,_ she thought, and the annoying leg itched. Again, and Arya couldn't rub it, not while she was glued to thick door.

“I wed Alyssa, not her House. I did my best to prevent any troubles, and even prohibited Brienne to speak, or even think, about it. My daughter is a Tarth, a Tarth, I told the King, but the King has spent too much time at the Eyrie to understand what was plain for his father. Steffon, his lovely wife who was a Estermont, they understood, helped us and died for this.”

Arya's father made a chocked sound. “The shipwreck, Jon Arryn told me that the shipwreck in which Robert's parents perished had been an accident...”

“A terrible accident. Like the poisoning of Brienne. Like the drowning of my only son.”

“I-I couldn't even guess...”

“A man whose face melted and changed in a blink, Brienne said.” Syrio started, almost imperceptibly, but he did start, and Arya was seeing, the true seeing, as the master had taught her. “She was only four, that hellish Throne and all its pretendants be damned. Now, my lord Hand, tell me, who can afford the cost of a faceless man?”

Syrio lifted her as if she was a fucking feathered pillow, and admonished her to be quiet, with a cutting glance. Arya wasn't that idiotic to shout and being discovered, so she leaned and whispered, just a tone louder than a snowflake falling on a wool cloak, “How can a face melt and change in a blink, Syrio?”

The bald man smiled in his own peculiar way and Arya disliked it, now, realizing that the former First Sword of Bravoos knew a lot of things, but wan't intentioned to tell her anything.

She smiled him back, clicking her teeth together in a mocking grimace, and wondering if Bravoos was so far from King's Landing.

  
  



	109. The perfect storm

KING'S LANDING - THE RED KEEP - IN THE TOWER OF BLOODRAVEN'S BETRAYAL

How much was a child's life worth? Bran's one was worth ninety silver stags, but it had been just a miserable catspaw and Bran was only a second son - a wolf, not a dragon.

The Evenstar was right. Only a king could meet the price asked by the faceless men to eliminate another king, a child, yes, but with such a strong claim to the Iron Throne. A king. Aerys, not Robert. Ned felt his stomach turn solid, as a block of ice. Not Robert, please.

The tall man was looking though him, as if he was made of glass.

“I either can't believe it had been Steffon's son, my lord,” Lord Selwyn said, and Ned breathed again. “They say that, once accepted a task, the faceless men do conclude it, careless of anything, careless of their own lives. Aerys, he could have ordered Galladon's murder before he was killed, he was evil, he has always been evil, even before Duskendale, only we didn't know, we didn't want to know. Tywin knew, he has always been the smartest of all, but he was too proud to understand that there are so many things you can't control in this mad, ancient world, and dragons are certainly among those things.”

Ned nodded, uncertain about what to say, what to think. He was really a poor surrogate of a Hand, just an unholy man who talked with trees, as a frank woman had recently thrown on his face.

“I'll speak again with His Grace, to convince him to allow you and your daughter leave for Tarth. Not today and not even tomorrow, though, I'm still arranging some new distributions of food spread all over the city, the ruins need to be removed, the wounded ones need to be visited, the dead ones need to be buried, included the High Septon, Gods save us, and the crows. We sent crows, and we expect crows from any rookery you can find in the realm,” Ned took a pause, and looked down to the map on the table.

Even the map was dusty, and worn, like the rest of his new apartments, but he preferred fighting with a million fleas and spiders, and with Bloodraven's ghost, than sleeping in Meagor's Holdfast under the Lannister woman's same roof. With a bit of luck, Ser Barristan would have keep his eye on the Kingslayer, as promised, impeding him from informing his father about the maiden's sword. _Valyrian steel._

“About Lord Tywin", Ned went on, with no further hesitations with the man who had just poured all his noble soul in their conversation, ”I'm afraid that he can be behind the failed attempt of abducting the lady Brienne.”

“Tywin? Not him.” The Evenstar was glaring at him, and Ned Stark of Winterfell felt a dwarf, and not a smart dwarf like the Imp. “Tywin will never do harm to me, or to my daughter.”

That was quite a news, and Ned was uncertain if it was a good or a bad one. “So, lord Tywin is a friend of yours, my lord?”

The white-haired man laughed, a dry laugh. “Tywin has no friends, only obedient servants, and enemies. He's a Lannister, though, and a Lannister always pays his debt. I made the mistake of saving his golden arse in the Stepstones. Oh, you didn't know, sure, you know nothing, my lord, and don't get vexed that way, I was exactly like you before Summerhall.”

“Summerhall? You were there with Ser Barristan?”

“I was there with my grand-father, ser Duncan the Tall, and there I lost him, my elder brother and a lot of kin, and met for the first time my Alyssa. She was beautiful even then, a beautifully freckled little thing, wailing with all her lungs, no more than three moons old." The lord paused, enjoying Ned's confusion. "Life is a storm, my lord, and the perfect storm is called love. It always takes you unaware.”


	110. The Big Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ser Kevan's POV

CASTERLY ROCK – DORNA’S SOLAR

At the fourth little cry of wonder, he resigned himself to pay his wife the attention the good woman was pleading, and deserved, in truth. Kevan patted the back of old Sandy - his favorite dog, which was so ugly with his yellowish hair and his sagging cheeks, yet he was the most loyal of dogs, the best dog ever – and reached Dorna, on the cushioned seats below the huge windows.

“So, wife, tell me, what’s happened of so interesting in the capital?”

“Oh, Kevan, it’s simply Tanda”, she said, blinking. “I don’t think it can interest you, you’re always so busy with such great deeds, but maybe…”

“Let me see, my lady. Let me read,” said Kevan. The great deed waiting for him in the morning was choosing a horse to replace the one that Jaime had lost, somehow, riding through the streets of King Landing’s. Jaime’s letter had been very vague about it, but Dorna’s father had wrote them profusely of the riot, a riot in which even the Evenstar's young daughter had been involved. King’s Landing was really a stinking sewer, and Kevan was really glad that his wife and his younger children were safe at Casterly Rock. Even Lancel had had a strange accident, nothing of serious, but the knight from House Bushy who had helped his firstborn son had been generously rewarded by Cersei, acting on Tywin's impulse. _Queen Cersei, I have to mind it,_ Kevan thought, and started reading.

“Oh. It seems that Lollys has made an impression on Lord Baelish. This is really nice to ear. And Lord Renly is also impressive in his new gilded armor, how interesting. _Love makes us more beautiful than ever_ , lady Tanda says, she’s always wise, and kind.”

 _An aged child, may the Crone bless and lead her though her dreams of enchanted maidens and valiant knights._ Ser Kevan skipped two entire pages, but he narrowed his eyes when he came to the last part of the letter. Here’s lady Stockeworth’s writing was uneasy to read, disordered, as if she has been in a haste. “Dorna, my beloved, could you help me? I can’t understand.”

His wife smiled, such a sweet smile, happy to be helpful. She was always happy is she could be of some help, and ser Kevan felt a lucky man. She took a deep breath, and read like she used to pray, slowly and with a clear, ringing voice:

> _‘Oh, my beloved Dorna, I wish you were here, I have to write you now, even it has all finished just a few moments ago, and it already seems all a dream… First the High Septon, accusing a Very Important Person of the lady Brienne’s poisoning, during the executions in Fishmonger’s square, then the shakes, the death of the High Septon and of the King’s Justice, the crumbling of half the River Gate, and of the Tower of the Hand, but that happened later when we were safe in Baelor's Sept… Lollys and Falyse were so scared, I was terrified by the smallfolk in the square! They looked at us as the wolves look at preys, and the King stood brave, and he gave us the time to recover in the Sept, and there we prayed and prayed, and I had been thinking of you, my beloved Dorna, wishing to have your innocent faith, and then… the rain, and all was good, and wonderful as before. People were singing, grateful, tearful, your Lancel has such a harmonious voice. Even Lord Gyles and the Queen were weeping, discreetly, for the emotion. The maiden, the enchanted maiden woke up, and she brought the salvific rain, they say. She saved the city, with ser Jaime always at her side, in his golden armor and white cloak. Oh, sweet Dorna, how am I supposed to sleep, now? I have to stop writing, because I need to send this letter as soon as possible._
> 
> _My best regards to you and you good husband,_
> 
> _Lady Tanda Stokeworth_
> 
> _and her daughter, the lady_
> 
> _L O L L Y S’_

“See, Kev, Tanda has always a good word for you.”

“Tanda is a great lady,” Kevan said, containing his abashment. “Who is this _enchanted maiden_ , my dear?”

“The Maid of Tarth,” answered his wife, a bit surprised, as if it was such a banality.

“Lord Selwyn’s daughter”, he sighed, and run to Tywin.

***

Tywin was intent on reading. Surely a report from lord Swift, about King’s Landing recent events. He didn’t even lift his eyes as Kevan entered in the immense solar.

The rain was drumming on the glass windows, and the feather made a unsettling sound on the paper, as Tywin began to write a letter. Kevan shifted on his feet, uncomfortably.

“Tell me, Kevan, what is worrying you?”

“The letter you got. I mean, it’s all, well, a big thing.”

“A big thing? It’s just a betrothal to break up before it becomes official, and a wedding to arrange. Finally.”

Kevan wondered if his brother’s lips were forming a feeble curve. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t, in fact. Tywin wasn’t smiling, just threatening a smile, and it was already quite a wonder, like Gerion used to quip. Gerion would have liked all those tales of magic maidens coming from the sea.

“Now, Kevan, did you also get a letter from the Wall or what?”

“The Wall?”

“Kevan, have you fallen from the bed tonight? If I’d want a talking bird, I’d buy one, younger and prettier than you. What’s in your hand?”

“Lady Tanda Stokeworth…”

Tywin inhaled, and took the letter from Kevan’s fingers. He read, imperturbable. When his eyes flecked with gold came back to Kevan’s face, Kevan felt a child who had missed something during a lesson.

“You can go, Kevan, and thank your lovely wife from my part. Don’t worry, though. Cersei always does something stupid, I will have it settled soon. Practically, nothing has changed, there’s always a betrothal to break up, and a wedding to arrange. We'd need a new High Septon to celebrate it, obviously, and we have to move quick, very quick. Quicker than Highgarden and Dorne. I wonder if it’s raining even there.” 


	111. From brother to brother (supposedly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter that can be easily skipped!   
> Remember when Tyrion wrote a second letter to Jaime from the Wall, and then he he wished that Jaime never got that letter? A million chapter ago, when Ned's principal worry was a stupid tourney. Well, the Gods listened to Tyrion, and with the complicity of an envious steward, his letter never arrived in King's Landing. It arrived at the Rock, instead. Ooops.

FROM THE END OF THE WORLD TO KING’S LANDING

BY CROW

Jaime,

for Gods’ sake, do nothing before having talked with me. Talked. You and me, no crows, or someone else.

I’m serious, and frozen, and I hate snow as much as I hate Cersei. I’m kidding, now, snow is less cold and treacherous than our beloved sister. There's also a nice guy named Snow, but this is a looong tale - and I hate his direwolf, though, because he likes me too much. As a nibble, I fear.

I’m still stuck in this fucking Castle Black, which is half a ruin, with no women for miles and miles, and not for Father.

For you. (I confess I’m also a bit curious, just a bit, the more I dig, the more I find something interesting about Tarth).

So, feel guilty about my aching, overworking hand and be good, concentrate yourself on the imminent tourney, you’re quite skilled in this kind of stuff, and wenches (snoring or not) are not admitted to compete in jousts or melees.

Do nothing, and say nothing.

Shut your bloody mouth.

Shut your bloody mouth.

Not drunk, it’s too cold here to get drunk, but I want you to be clear that you have to shut your bloody mouth.

You called ‘freakish wench’ the last descendant of ser Duncan the Tall, who was only the greatest knight ever, and princess Daella Targaryen, who was only king Maekar’s first daughter. Then you get angry if I call you dumbest of the dumb, or if you got punched, idiot.

Hope that the next time she will break your pretty nose, because there will be another time, you’ll never stay still and quiet like a good lion cub. Fuck. Stupid, stupid, stupid bro, sometimes I wonder if you were adopted. 

From the end of the world, the snow-man who once was your (presumed) brother, also known as

Tyrion-Mighty-Hand-Lannister

***

FROM CASTERLY ROCK TO CASTLE BLACK

BY CROW

Tyrion.

Jaime wasn't adopted. You neither, unfortunately.

Till this morning, I thought Gods had deprived you of everything good, except for some low cunning, which might be mistaken for wits. Now that I received the letter you wanted to send Jaime instead, I'm sure you're stupid like your beloved siblings, even if this is the only feature you share with them.

Be sure of learning something useful from ser Endrew Tarth, or disappear beyond the Wall. 

Something useful, I said, not that rubbish about ser Duncan the Tall. In my years at court as a boy, I heard the tale a thousand times, from Selwyn Tarth's own lips. At that time, we were close friends, try to remind ser Endrew that it was his twin to knight me - it can help, maybe. Or maybe not, islanders are unpredictable and Tarths... Tarths are tart. 

Still, I owe the Evenstar a debt.

Send your reply to King's Landing, I'm aimed there, where many things happened while you were doing what you like the most, that is _nothing_. 

Do this _nothing_ decently, at least. Try to remember that Tyrion is a king's name. It was your lady mother to chose it, obviously, I didn't want to steal the choice from her, the way you stole the life from her.

Your Lord, 

Tywin Lannister

Lord Of Casterly Rock

Shield of Lannisport

Warden of the West 

***

FROM CASTERLY ROCK TO KING'S LANDING

BY CROW

Jaime,

I'm leaving for King's Landing. In the meanwhile, try to remember your courtesies when you're in the presence of highborn maidens. 

In other words, shut your bloody mouth and do nothing stupid - I don't want my heir to be involved in some other fights, or be punched again by someone so delicate to be harmed by the scent of some roses. 

Your Lord Father, 

Tywin Lannister

Lord Of Casterly Rock

Shield of Lannisport

Warden of the West


	112. The hard work of a wetnurse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JAIME'S POV

KING'S LANDING - THE RED KEEP - THE WENCH'S ROOM IN THE WENCH'S TOWER

The more he thought about it, the more Jaime was certain about it.

Lord Tywin knew about Dark Sister. Probably he wanted to be certain that the blade wasn’t at the Wall, and here was why he had asked Tyrion of investigating a bit. Probably he wanted to buy it from the Evenstar, wanting desperately to replace Brightroar, the ancestral sword of House Lannister, lost somewhere in Essos.

 _Valyrian steel and dragonblood, those were the only reasons of Father’s interest in the wench, not certainly what the damned stag has suggested._ The Maid of Tarth was far too stupid to become the new Lady of Casterly Rock, Cersei had no reasons to fear her. _Cersei. For Gods’ sake, I totally forgot about Cersei, with the shakes and all the rest. I have to find soon an excuse to visit her, she will be furious with me. And staying here is really a torture, may the Others take any stag, fat or slim, and any blind wench, too._

Even now, she was smiling shily, and studying Renly’s toes, while Renly was talking and talking.

Storm’s End and his castellan - that made Septa Donyse giggle, fondly.

Tobho Mott and the details of the antlers on his new helm - that made Jaime sneer. 

Again Storm's End and an insolent fool that he had got rid of - that made Brienne's eyes sparkle. Gods, her skin was ridiculously spotted with red blotches and freckles, and she had touched the stupid braid on her head so many times that even the Septa was getting nervous about it. 

“Not so close, my lord”, warned Septa Roelle as Renly hinted at whisper something in Brienne’s ear. The Septa was right, undoubtedly. She was the King’s ward, the next Evenstar and a maiden, what the fuck.

Renly just sniggered, and Brienne asked Podrick to borrow her the little black board that the lad used to do some writing exercises with Septa Donyse. She wrote quickly something, showed it to Renly, and quickly erased it, before the Septa might read it.

“You shouldn’t, my lady,” answered Renly, and, then, “I don’t mind about it, at all. On the contrary, I feel honored” when the little crazy scene was repeated in spite of the Septa’s attempt of seizing the board. 

The wench beamed at the impudent stag, she really beamed at him, her face filled with light when outside it was raining thick, but finally the Septa grasped the board, and turned to give it back to the stupid lad - and in meanwhile the Septa was giving the back to Renly, Renly leaned and kissed the wench on a cheek, and the wench did part her lips in shock as only a stupid wench could do.

“Renly!”, she shouted, and Renly chuckled.

_Renly._

Renly was gently accompanied to the exit door, what the fuck.


	113. What a wench can know?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BRIENNE'S POV

KING'S LANDING - THE RED KEEP - A CELL, ON THE TOP FLOOR OF A TOWER

“How you dared…”

“Not a word, wench. You were too busy in dreaming your stupid dreams to know it, but it was your precious Renly...”

“Lord Renly!”

“If a hideous, mindless wench can call him Renly, why a Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard, who happens to be particularly handsome and witted, shouldn't have the same right of calling him Renly?"

"He's the King's brother..."

"... and I'm his good-brother. What a privilege."

"He's a courteous man and the Lord Paramount of..."

".. the Scornlands, home of the loveliest maidens of all the Seven Kingdoms."

"Ser!"

"Don't scold me, my good Septa, is it my fault if I got blinded by such a beauty? Isn't she lovely with her new ribbon?"

Brienne made out an inarticulate sound, and her legs this time obeyed, if only for an instant. Pod softened her fall - poor, innocent Pod. He managed a smile, while Septa Roelle invoked the Maiden’s blessing, Jaime invoked all the Gods but with no holy purposes, and kept invoking them again and again, as Brienne grasped the leg of the table not to give him the satisfaction of lifting her like he had lifted - and yanked! - an absurdly bemused Renly.

“This is getting really ridiculous, wench,” the lion growled, and Podrick seemed agree with him. Well, Pod muttered something but Brienne didn’t actually understand any of the lad's words.

“Lord Renly”, she insisted, peremptorily.

Jaime’s nostrils widened, and he took a deep breath. “Lord Renly, then. Now leave this table in peace, I beg you, before it changes a in wooden hound and bites you. You make the impossible turn possible, my lady. ” His hands wrapped her with unconcern, but he was looking intensely at the table, as if might really become a threat, and the expression in Septa Roelle’s eyes made her feel a five years old. “About our beloved Lord of Storm’s End,” Jaime begun as soon as she was again on her chair and Podrick had helped him in Renly’s former chair. “Ask him who had sent all those damned roses.”

Brienne had a flash, a room filled with roses, and it had been Renly. But not the vase filled with sweetsleep, Brienne was sure of it - Renly would never harm her, he cared about her and he had even sent away the fool who had been always so cruel with her during her permanence in Storm's End. The King. King Robert knew everything but he had sworn to protect her, all the same, so her Father had told her. _An anointed King can't be a liar and a perjurer_. _It has been someone else, someone who doesn't know about Mother, someone who must have other reasons and who is evil._ _Surely not a knight._ Her fingers ran to her wrists. _I had a sign, there, when I fell asleep, red, rough circles caused by the rope._ Someone had hit her, tied her. Someone with a small keep and sheep somewhere, but where? _The hood, it impeded me to hear – but the accent, it wasn't a northern accent. He didn't even smell of North._

“So, my lady?”, Jaime said, interrupting her thoughts. He was the portrait of smugness, his hands toying with a lace of his crimson-and-cream doublet, his legs crossed - and he had sunk in the chair so much that his elbow was almost touching hers. “Roses weren't such a welcome gift, were they?”

Brienne flinched. “I can't understand what you are trying to suggest, ser.”

“I don't suggest anything. I infer.”

 _One day, I will have back my strength, and reduce your pretty grin to a bleeding horror, ser,_ she wanted to say. “Then you overvalue your inferring ability, ser, because you're wrong. Lord Renly is the most honorable of men,” Brienne replied, instead, her heart thundering. The Lannister scum always got that power on her, the power of making her heart galloping like... _Oh. Gods. I’m really an idiot._

“Honorable…”, Jaime snorted. “What a wench can know about honor?”

“Honor… is a horse,” she confessed, incredibly ashamed of having forgotten about it. She was really the greatest idiot of Westeros, along with the man who was staring at her, amazed, playing no more, the mistreated laces finally allowed to rest on his chest. “The thoroughbred you gave me to ride back to the Red Keep, ser. I-I apologize, I-I…”

“Honor… you called my horse Honor.” His green eyes - very wide open, and very green.

She nodded, and swallowed the embarrass. “I left him in the stable facing the outer yard. Pate is the name of the groom who promised to care about him. I had no occasion to tell you, ser.”

“You hadn’t, it’s true. You did sleep quite a long time,” Jaime replied, and for a moment he seemed on the verge to add something more, something serious, but then he started guffawing, loudly, like a fool. He just lacked a hat with bells of pure gold, matching his curls. “Where’s the fuck is Addam when I need him the most? Honor, Gods be good, Addam will laugh till tears. Oh, here’s your Lord Father, my lady Brienne. I have a question for you my lord, how do they call your pretty island? The Fantasy Island?”

“Tarth is called the Sapphire Island, ser,” answered her father, advancing slow, his eyes still, and narrowed. “For the blue of its waters.”

“Of course, of course, my lord. No other reasons,” Jaime shoot a glance at her, just now that Brienne’s cheeks were regaining a normal color, thanks to her father’s presence. “Now, I beg your forgiveness, I must recuperate a horse and a knight. Not necessarily in this order. Try to be gentle and not to get bitten by some magic hound in the meanwhile, my lady,” he added and her Father cursed, but he was already gone, his laughter ringing down the stairs.


	114. In a very small hall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SANSA'S POV

KING'S LANDING - THE RED KEEP - THE NEW QUARTERS OF THE KING'S HAND  
  


The harpist sent by Brienne was so much talented, and her songs were so southron, the aroma of some spice spreading in the air, along with the notes.

It contrasted oddly with the rain tapping on the windows. The rain was a sullen thing, grey and boring like the new Small Hall in which Sansa and Jeyne were forced to spend the most of their time, and they were lucky to be spared of any cleaning task. This part of the tower had been unused for a long time, so spiders and other filthy creatures came out at any sneeze, and so the level over their heads, because Septa Mordane had seen painters and drapers directed to the new quarters of the Sworn Brothers of the Kingsguard.

 _Drapers._ Sansa sighed, her hand involuntary pressing on the borrowed gown, sadly brown like the bread gifted to the poor ones.

Her father was far too much absorbed in a hundred tasks, and even his steward had been appointed with something important responsibility, or so Jeyne had said, at least, her almost flat chest filling with more pride than air. Jeyne had something new, recently, a light in her eyes which resembled to insolence.

When Lord Bryce Caron emerged from the Hand's solar and passed by, it was Sansa that he greeted in such a polite way, and of course it was for Sansa that he bowed so gracefully, so when he left, Jeyne's comments on the golden-red hair of the Lord of Nightsong were clearly inappropriate.

_It's all so inappropriate, here. We lack everything, and when you lack everything it's perfectly normal to call Small Hall a chamber that is actually small, but certainly not a hall, and even more certainly not a hall worth of the Hand of the King._

Her father was busy with some knights from the Reach, when a great guest was announced, so Sansa hurried to set her needlework on a limping table, and pressed Jeyne to follow her back in the narrow chamber they had to share with Arya and the black cat before being caught in the same room with someone so highborn and elegant, but Jeyne froze, and Sansa turned, too - and if she didn't freeze it was only because she was a Stark of Winterfell, and not a steward's whelp.

The young man with Lord Renly Baratheon had eyes which were pools of molten gold, and golden was the delicate rose pinned on his black velvet doublet, lashed with pale green silk.

Ser Loras Tyrell, from the House Tyrell of Highgarden, presented himself, and the grace of his gestures obscured Lord Caron's memory.

He was so gentle and composed, even if it was clearly annoyed with something that had just happened between the King's brother and the Queen's brother.

“Oh, Loras, you should be glad instead,” laughed lord Renly, giving a curious look to the faded tapestries which made Sansa blush even more violently that she had before, when ser Loras has brushed the back of her hand with a light, very light kiss. A knight's kiss. “Let the lion roar, it's when the lion sleeps that you ought be concerned. We should concentrate ourselves about other more important matters, like clothes.”

“Clothes?”, objected ser Loras, his brown curls glimmering as he chuckled - he could chuckle so amiably.

“The burial of a High Septon who has died in the odor of sanctity are not a thing that happen every day. The Spider is already working to ensure the ceremony will be without incidents, and I'm surely not going to present myself with a plain black cloak. It wouldn't be respectful, and someone told me the Queen's gown will be a dark delight with rubies shaped like tears. I wonder for whom she was keeping that marvel in a trunk.”

 _Rubies._ _The world is so unfair._ _If I had still the silver-and-onix necklace that Mother gave me. It enhanced so well the paleness of my skin..._ Jeyne elbowed her, just a bit, but it was sufficient to make the little lady realize that ser Loras was watching her, a shadow on his chiseled features... He was troubled, wasn't he? Sansa's heart jumped at her throat.

“Sometimes it's wiser to keep your clothes in a trunk well closed,” said the Knight of Flowers, still observing her, scrutinizing her, his lips insisting on the word 'clothes' with a fervor that made Sansa understand he was talking of his thoughts, and not of some banal garb. She lowered her glance back to her needlework, the music filling her more than ever.

“Loras, Loras, if you're not in the mood of talking, maybe our lovely lady Stark and her kind friend will be more merciful.” Jeyne almost fell from her chair, in her haste to get again on her feet. “Oh, no, please, I don't intend to distract you from your refined work, but I'm such in pain for a friend of mine.”

“A friend, my lord?”

“A very close friend of mine, my lady, who is deeply in love with a very highborn and young woman, a princess, we may say,” lord Renly replied, glancing at ser Loras, who rolled his eyes with such a suffering elegance to melt even a heart of ice. And Sansa's heart was made of ice. “He wants desperately for her to knows that he _cares_ , but which gift can he choose?”

“No roses, that's certain,” complained Ser Loras, and the Lord of Storm's End made quite a face, but, of course, roses were a message that everybody might read and if the lady in question was already betrothed...

“Forget-me-not,” she murmured, surprised by her own boldness. “It symbolizes true love, faithful love.” _And it's blue, and blue goes so well with my auburn hair._

“Forget-me-not flowers symbolize also pureness,” Lord Renly seemed suddenly inspired, and he touched gingerly the one of the sleeves of Loras. “Like pearls. It must be pearls, a long row of pearls, but black, officially because of the mourn, with one oval diamond shining dark like Valyrian Steel, to contrast her paleness. My lady Sansa, what a gift the Northern Gods have sent to this lonely city!”

Loras was also adorably shy, and didn't comment openly. Yet his eyes were flames, and Sansa felt hurt and relieved when he left with lord Renly to enter in her father's solar, because she had to be regain her composure, now that the hall was crowded with so many people.

 _Pearls, and an oval diamond. My face is such a nice oval, Septa Mordane says, but it won't be easy to justify such a gift._ Sansa smiled benevolently to the Knight of Butterflies and his companion, her mind wandering, and wandering.

When Jeyne elbowed her _again_ , she almost startled.

“Oh, Sansa, I can't believe at what I've just heard, and, now even more than before, I can't really believe that Lord Renly might be implied in the poisoning of the Maid of Tarth. I've seen no one more courteous and in love... But can you guess what that means?”

Sansa simply nodded, not wanting to quarrel with Jeyne in front of her father's guest, but of course she knew what it did mean. It meant that Jeyne was merely a stupid, and couldn't see more far than her nose.

The sight of Arya hurrying inside the hall with her crutch was the final sign she could really give up the idea of enjoying the songs and thinking about Loras in peace.

Somewhere in Sansa's mind the Hound was laughing really hard at her miseries.


	115. The stable boy and the lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The former novice's POV

THE RED KEEP - THE STABLES FACING THE MAIN YARD

In the two long years spent at the Citadel, Pate had almost learned to stitch a wound, and, surely, he had learned to sew a secret pouch on his shirt, to hide on himself the few pennies he had left, after the hard travel back north. Well, King's Landing wasn't truly so north, but surely it was the most northern place that Pate had ever reached, far enough from Lannisport and his warden. The boy shivered at the thought of facing his warden and tell him that Vinegard Vaellyn haunted his dreams like dreadful creatures haunt the Sea of Shivers, and stroked the red stallion's mane, to share a bit of his warmth.

It was such a gorgeous horse, and clever. Cleverer than Pate himself, probably. When he had left Oldtown, Pate was aimed to become a squire – not that he intended to be a knight, he had no skills, nor money to buy a mount or an armor, he just wanted to squire for some lesser knight and be safe, for the rest of his life – as if knights and lords were waiting eagerly for the services of the such as Pate.

The lad sighed, resting his head on the stallion's neck, keeping stroking him and thanking silently the Father for the privilege of having being accepted as a stable boy, having met his four-legged talisman and having learned how to sew a secret pouch, at least.

Because Pate now had more than a few pennies to preserve. Many coppers, but also some silver coins, and all was due to the horse.

Honor, the lady had called him. She was a great lady, undoubtedly, for her manners spoke loudly about it, and she must have been beautiful, probably. The song said that the maiden was beautiful, and that was what the people coming to see the horse wanted to believe. Pate just put the money they offered in his pocket, and nodded to all their questions, but in truth he wasn't that sure about it, because when the lady had arrived at the stable he had been drowsy with sleep, first, and then a bit distracted. He had never seen before legs so long, and so… bare.

Not that Pate would hint at this little detail, with the visitors. There was no need, they just wanted to see Honor, and have the proof that the song wasn't merely a song. The shakes had interrupted all of that, because everyone had seen the lady waving her gracious hand from the high of her tower. Everyone but Pate - he was too scared to leave the stables with all that people shouting in the yard. Now the hopes of see someone interested in the horse was very weak, and it was a tragedy for Pate's finances. Some of the visitors were wealthy, and generous. Wealthy like the two men that had just entered into the stable and that seemed Pate's favorite sort of clients. Landed knights, or even Lords.

 _Great Lords_ , he corrected himself, noticing the gems on the swords' hilts.

“...I doubt we will ever know who the man was, or who sent him”, the first man was murmuring. He wore a smoke grey silk cloak, with the burning tree of House Ashemark, which had almost the same copper shimmer of his hair, falling loose on his shoulders. “Probably he wasn't even a Westerosi, because of the strange tattoo on his cheek. It's a pity that ser Arys has killed him.”

“Not that the catspaw would ever have talked, Addam,” replied the second knight, and Pate caught in his breath, recognizing him. He feigned to be absorbed by his duty, the currycomb shaking in his pale fingers.

“Not without his tongue, Jaime, and the curious thing is that the Great Maester is convinced that the tongue has been cut by some other maester or healer, when the man was just a child. I wonder why.”

“I wonder who, instead. And I wonder how the man got wrinkled and white-haired, if he was no more than twenty, like Pycelle told you.”

Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard stopped right before him, and Pate was back a child of four, gaping at the amazing parade of lord and ladies escorting the queen-to-be to King's Landing. Among all the faces pouring down the streets adorned with crimson and black flags and a rainbow of banners, Pate could remember only two. Lord Tywin's, and his son's, both tall and serious, indifferent to the cheers and to the petals' rain.

Now ser Jaime was smiling, though, and patting on Honor's neck, whilst Honor whinnied softly. From the bridles and the harness, Pate was sure that the horse must belong to someone important, but he had never dreamed to meet a true lion of the Rock. His heart was hammering, his legs were weak, and he lost half the words the knight was saying to his companion, who must be the heir of Lord Damon Marbrand.

“Honor, she has called him Honor. Wounded, and exhausted, and still willing to bother me, somehow.”

“Jaime, for the Gods' sake, save me from this preach. It's just a name, if you don't like it, just change it.”

“And give the wench this kind of satisfaction? Never. Here you are, lad.”

Pate looked again down at his open hand, still stunned. No need to bite it, Lannisters don't cheat about gold, it was pure gold, shining on his sweated palm.

“A golden dragon? You must be mad, my friend,” said the knight of House Marbrand, shaking his head, and Pate looked away desperately, sure that the dragon would have soon flied away from his fingers.

“Mad? Why? Pate did a good job, and he will earn the money answering to a couple of questions,” Ser Jaime turned again towards him, the green of his eyes sparkling. “Is Pate your name, isn't it?” Pate felt a mouse in a cat's paws, but had the strength to nod in a very mousy way. “Good, boy. Don't worry, I'm a curious man, and curious men always make questions. Has anyone asked you about my horse, before today?” Pate nodded again, and the lion grinned. “Well, I like quiet people, but you're far too quiet, Pate. You remind me the poor Ser Ilyn. Addam, how many stabs got our loyal knight of House Payne? Ten, or eleven?”

“It was impossible to count them, Jaime. They say that crowd literally has torn him in a hundred pieces.”

Pate's tongue began to work, then, and the more he talked, the more ser Jaime looked pleased, and reassuring.

“Even a singer came and see Honor? Who, exactly?”, he asked, and Pate described the short man meticulously, beginning form his twelve-stringed harp, and his doeskin jerkin. It was an easy task, since Symon Silver Tongue had been one of the first ones to come, and had come back twice, always asking something new and letting every time a silver stag, because the singer was sure to become soon rich and famous with his song.

“Which song, lad?”, interrupted ser Jaime, amiable.

“ _She rode through the streets of the city_ ”, Pate sang, wishing to be back to the Citadel and maester Walgrave's ravens and his pisspot, far from shakes and lions. “ _That_ song, sers, the song about the Maid of Tarth and...”

“And?”

“And the knight who loves her so desperately to give up for her to his Honor. Well, he gave up to his horse, to save the lady from an ambush, but the horse is called Honor, i-in the song, I-I mean...” The stable had grown so narrow, now - Pate was on the verge to faint, like novice Davon did when he saw his first half-rotten corpse.

“How charming. It seems that Honor is quite an abused name for horses, lately. Honor is also quite an abused notion, and not only lately,” ser Jaime commented, and his smile was sharp like a razor, and whiter than his cloak. “Is that all, lad?”

“Last time he came, Symon told me he was protected by a very highborn woman, who had payed him for writing the song, but the Lord who was with him mocked him, so I'd guess it was just a boast, sers.”

“A Lord?”

“A man so elegantly dressed couldn't be nothing else. He wore pure silk, a rose-and-cream doublet on rose breeches, and his satin cloak was fastened with a silver brooch, showing a mockingbird, ser.” Pate was proud of his memory. If he had just a chance to come back to the Citadel, maybe he would make a maester, in the end.

“I think the lad knows nothing more, Jaime. Let him be,” said the copper-haired knight.

“I think so, too. Pate, we're done. I'll send a squire for the horse, but even if you've treated Honor so well, you really look wasted here, as a stable boy. Have you ever thought about living south for some years?”

“I-I'd like to go to the Citadel, ser, and learn there how to set a bone.”

“See, Addam?”, Ser Jaime said, patting on Pate's slump shoulder. “The guy is a very gifted one. I see a brilliant future for you in Oldtown. Greet the Sphinxes from my part, and remember. I want you to leave tonight, and forget anything you saw, and heard.”

“Tonight, ser,” Pate repeated, not believing that in his palm there were five golden dragons, now. More than he had ever have. Enough to get back to the Citadel, bribe someone to be allowed in, and raise at the Quill and Tankard secret toasts to the lion and his lady for a longtime. He left before sunset, and looked back not even once. The rain had stopped falling, leaving on the cobbles a coverlet, thin and gray like Pate's new donkey, and the horizon was shining dark and crimson in front of him, bright like an iron or a bronze chain.


	116. Fishes or worms?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CERSEI'S POV

KING'S LANDING - THE RED KEEP - MAEGOR'S HOLDFAST- THE QUEEN'S SOLAR

_Knowledge is power,_ the man had just said, and the condescending grin on his ugly face told the Queen that he truly believed in such foolishness.

 _Power is power_ , thought Cersei and savored the day in which she would have got rid of Robert, and clean the court from idiots like Lord Baelish. Because, underneath all his precious clothes, Lord Bealish was just... Littlefinger. A lesser lord, with more sheep than acres of lands, and even the sheep were not that many, probably. A helpful man, a bit too servile, and boring sometimes.

“Frankly, my lord, I do thank you for the information but I see no use of it”, she replied, glancing over the modest shoulders of Lord Baelish's to have a look of Joffrey sparring with the Hound in the inner yard. She had preferred them not to leave the Maegor's Holdfast, and she was not going to allow Joffrey to go to Baelor's Sept for the High Septon's funeral, obviously.

“Your Grace, when I saw the King leaving the castle early in the morning I supposed he had no time to tell you about the trial.”

“We had the night to talk, my lord,” the memory was still bitter in Cersei's mouth, even if Robert had luckily deserted her bed, in the end. “and, besides, any person with some wits would expect a trial after what happened in the square. The poor High Septon hadn't the time to conclude his speech, but the people claim justice, the Evenstar claims justice, too, for his daughter, and they'll got justice.” _Not that the taste of it will please Robert, Renly and his crippled bannerman._

Littlefinger brought again the hand at his chin, as if all the short man's fortune were in this ridiculous pointed beard. “Still, Your Grace, a trial about a thing which happened inside the walls of the Red Keep.... someone may be concerned about the reputation...”

“... of the Maid of Tarth? Why? Of course, a maiden shouldn't be allowed to ride alone in the night, but naturally the trial will clear up everything, giving the lady Brienne the opportunity to explain her weird conduct. Or do you want to confess, my lord, that you believe in some stupid song?”

“Absolutely not, Your Grace,” Littlefinger replied, with his thin and tedious voice, his hand touching the smooth surface of the carved table that Cersei had recently ordered to substitute the one her oaf husband had destroyed. The last one her husband might ever destroy, because her plans would have soon come true, obliging the Queen to have another mourning dress prepared, even more stunning than the one she was going to wear for the fat pork's burial. “No one can question the honor of such a lovely girl,” continued Lord Petyr, slyly, “or, worse, of a sworn brother of the Kingsguard. Not certainly a song in which our beloved lady Brienne is described like the most beautiful woman ever.”

The Queen rested her head on the velvet pillow of the chaise, having a hard time in avoiding a laugh. _Sometimes, even boring men can be surprisingly amusing_ , she decided. _And sometimes, even the most handsome of men looks can look a scarecrow._

Her brother wasn't properly shaved, and he seemed paler than usual, tired or maybe just angry. His forced smile dropped as he took sight of Lord Baelish, but she hadn't finished with Littlefinger and she had no intention of talking privately with Jaime, not after all the time he had took to come visiting her.

“Cersei. Lord Petyr.” She tilted gracefully her head, like she always did when an old courtesan called for her attention, and waited for her twin to talk again. It didn't take long. “I apologize, but I've hoped to have some time to spend with my sister, since we haven't still seen each other after the earthquake.”

“Jaime, I'm perfectly able to deal with a few shakes, as you can see. Lord Baelish and I were talking about some important issues, but you can stay and listen, if you desire. Have a seat.” She waved a hand, and a serving girl brought a plate with peaches and plums. She poured herself and her sibling a generous cup of wine, but whilst Littlefinger started biting a fruit, Jaime stared at the cup and at the peaches as if they were poisoned.

“I can't remain for long, Cersei”, he insisted, his fingers running nervously through his golden curls like anytime he wanted her fingers to stroke him, “And I'm not hungry, nor thirsty...”

“So it's true you're enjoying your new role of taster for the King's ward. Commendable, ser Jaime, commandable.”

This time, Cersei couldn't help but chuckle at Littlefinger's observation and at Jaime's face. His eyes were narrowed and intense, his muscles tensed and his legs toned, and now that he looked like a lion ready to jump on his prey, he was again her beautiful twin.

He beautifully emptied the space between him and the door with a few long strides, and left, without a word. The wine was acrid on Cersei's lips, but she kept them curved in one of her fascinating smiles.

“I'm afraid that ser Jaime would like our former enchanted maiden to sleep for another bit of time. Another century, day more, day less.”

The Queen frowned, and scolded the impudent man. A man with good ideas, but still too impudent. Like the wretched singer she had filled with silver stags, only to discover that he had thanked her with such a bad work. Symon Silver Tongue, player and storyteller, this way he had presented himself the first and unique time she had seen him. Cersei listened absently-minded to Lord Petyr's chattering about the charms of places like Stokeworth or about the draper's wife who ser Preston Greenfield visited so often, nibbling at a plum to set her stomach and wondering if it was the worms or the fishes that had had the privilege to taste a true silver tongue. It was such a weird doubt, and a good question to ask ser Osmund later, that same night.

  
  



	117. Green knights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JAIME'S POV

At every step Jaime felt lighter, his mood slightly improving notwithstanding all, notwithstanding Cersei.

The sound of words clanging in the unique, large space at the ground floor of the tower had made him smile, and the sight of servants, masons and carpenters working hardly in the spacious hall occupying the first floor was a nice one. With its walls high at least 7 feet, and the stone vaults, the hall would make out a decorous replacement of the former Small Hall, that had been actually small only compared to the King's Great Hall.

Not that the lord of a gloomy place like Winterfell might ever complain about King’s Landing, or about the wench’s tower. Ned Stark and his men had occupied its third, fourth and fifth floors, and there the coming and going of people was still very frenetic.

_Too many people, and too near Brienne_ , Jaime thought, suddenly intrigued by the voices which were resounding on the bare bricks of the walls. A few men had stopped on the sort of landing that opened halfway a floor and another, and one of them was surely ser Cunt.

“No, Mark, she isn’t betrothed, you heard the Hand,” the short man was saying.

“The Hand said nothing about her being betrothed or not.”

“Precisely, Mark.”

“Sometimes I can’t follow you, Hyle”, added a third, deeper voice.

“Following a reasoning is not what the Gods want from you, Big Ben. Be quiet and let the adults talk, because what the Hand said is interesting, what he didn’t say is even more significative.”

“Lord Stark simply asked us about the Targaryen sword, Hyle.”

“And ordered us to keep the silence till the trial, Mark, about it and about anything else regarding the Maid of Tarth. Included her travelling with a dowry which even lady Margaery Tyrell may envy.”

“If she has come here with a dowry, it’s because she is already promised to lord Renly, as I was saying,” ser Mark replied, annoyed. 

“If so, I’d be surprised.”

“Hyle, the roses…”

“The roses, and Lord Renly being always at the Evenstar’s side is just the confirm that she will never become the lady of Storm’s End.” Jaime almost startled for the wonder, and even the knights of House Bushy and Mullendore were utterly stupefied, judging from the queer noises they were making. “Lord Renly wants to force the King’s approval, and now I understand why. King Robert will never allow his favorite brother to wed a half-Targ, everybody knows that he detests the Targaryens. More, I can’t see the Lord of Casterly Rock eager to see the birth of a bunch of tall, blue-eyed babies who might have more dragonblood in their veins than his precious grand-children.”

“That’s why the Kingslayer is always with the girl!”

“You got it, Ben. If I were the Evenstar I’d rather look for a lesser lord for my daughter.”

“Lord Caron? Or the heir to Ashemark? They both seemed quite impressed by the girl, Gods only know why,” ser Mark chuckled, and Jaime this time had to press a hand on his mouth to choke a laugh. The thought of his father feeling threatened by the wench was already quite exhilarating, but the thought of Addam or some other handsome man being interested in her was really too much for his poor ears. Yet, the sheep hadn’t finished bleating. 

“Not a lord, or a lord-to-be. Better a knight. A first son, of an ancient and honored House with no lands of his own, someone very, very glad to become the new Lord of Tarth and nothing more,” concluded ser Cunt.

“Or a second son,” replied ser Mark.

“Why not a third son, if he’s tall and strong enough?”, asked ser Ben, and even his sounded a proposal. Well, Ben Bushy was tall, ugly and simpleton enough to be a good match for the wench - Jaime was so amused, that he decided to let them go unharmed, for a while, at least.

He moved, and the idiots from the Reach stepped aside to let him pass, unaware that they had been just kissed by luck.

In a few instants, Jaime arrived at the new quarters of the white cloaks, and, following a sudden impulse, he reached ser Arys’ chamber, which was in truth the room that ser Arys had to share with at least two of his brothers, due to the lack of space. The wench’s tower was polygonal and larger than the White Sword Tower, but the kingsguards had only a floor available, thanks to the greedy northmen.

Luckily the sixth floor presented, if not the splendor, at least the same structure of the top floor, the corridor bringing to three chambers, the last of which ones, destined to be their new common room, wasn’t as wide as the wench’s bedroom, but still large enough to host the huge weirwood table, carved in the shape of a shield, that was the pride of the Lord Commander. The White Book was already there, surely brought by Ser Barristan, whose new apartment was nothing more than a dusty cubbyhole with a tiny window - corresponding, upstairs, at the wench’s garderobe - that opened directly into the common room.

Jaime smiled seeing ser Arys immersed in some worn papers, as he had smiled when he had realized that their quarter had two privies for seven people, whilst the Hand’s new quarters had just three, for a good number of flea-ridden wolves.

“I’m glad to see that you’re well, ser,” he said, thinking that Pycelle had done a good work, for a change. Ser Arys looked still a bit like a corpse, but a recovering corpse, now that was blushing fiercely like a certain maid that Jaime had the misfortune to know.

“Ser Jaime.”

“I’m afraid this is still my name, yes,” he giggled, softly, not desiring to bother ser Preston’s sleep. “You chose the bed which is closer to the window, well done. I claim this one for me, then,” Jaime added, sitting on the empty bed between ser Arys’ and ser Preston’s.

The younger knight looked stunned. “Who’s going to be with the King’s ward, then? Ser Barristan?”

Jaime grinned. Sometimes ser Arys was really naïve, the Lord Commander’s place was at the side of the King, not at the side of a wench. “I just claimed the bed, not that I’m going to use it that soon.” He pointed at the ceiling with his index finger. “A lovely chair is waiting for me, a cushioned, and very comfortable chair. Well, I must confess that upstairs is far more comfortable than here, ser. Two wide chambers connected by a solar, another small room, and even a bath, all with high windows, higher vaults and painted walls.

“The company is certainly more pleasant than here,” replied ser Arys, his voice still a bit weakened by the week spent abed. Jaime shook his head, and laughed hard, this time, gaining a muffled protest by the man asleep - it was plain that the green knight from Old Oak had never met the wench. 


	118. Three rounds of pearls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BRIENNE'S POV

THE RED KEEP - A TOWER FACING THE SEA

For the third time in her life, Brienne Tarth had to learn walking.

She had assisted at the start of the night and of the day - the light of the stars and, then, of a timid sun filtering through the shutters till the arranged bed where the obstinate kingsguard had finally accepted to rest - thinking and rethinking to what her Father had told her, and letting the tears fall only when the rhythmic movements of Jaime's eyelids ensured her that he was having a dream.

In the end, she had scarcely slept two or three hours, but that wasn't a good excuse for her body to rebel, again. A hand grabbed at the table where she had to fight with an absurdly irritating lion for every bite of food, a hand grabbed at the beautifully carved desk that ser Addam had kindly put inside her reach, Brienne stood, finally all by herself, just to stop, red and panting, after only two wretched steps, not understanding why her left leg was stiff and sore, while the right one was weak and, obviously, sore.

Septa Roelle looked satisfied, yet. “Good, Brienne, now a third one, please”, she said, and the third step was a nightmare, but Brienne made it. 

“Not bad, not bad for a beginning, my lady,” the knight of Ashemark confirmed, encouraging, his eyes warm and brown like a chestnut in fall. Even his hair reminded her of the autumn, so similar to the flaming leaves of the great oak dominating the meadow where ser Goodwin had taught her how to use a shield to break your opponent's defense and some of his bones. Her nose still remembered the lesson, or so it wanted to tell her, itching in an unbearable way just now that she couldn't move a finger without gaining another bruise and another green gaze.

She reciprocated the scornful glance, and took another, hesitant step, barely conscious of the soft sound of another step just behind her. _It's Podrick, following me, ready to catch me_ , she realized, and the thought was so ridiculously tender that she lost the concentration for an instant and almost fell. Almost, luckily.

“For Gods' sake, wench, try to be more careful, at least. Don't need to sow your ugly teeth on the carpet, it such a lovely carpet, surely made by the talented fingers of some slave in Myr.” Jaime was looming over her in his green silk doublet lined with golden velvet, his eyes glimmering with the curiosity of a cat. “They say that your lady mother was from one of the Free Cities. If so, was she from Myr? I don't think so. They say that all the women in Myr have the dark beauty of the Rhoynar, and you look a bit too homely and pale, wench.”

She had to sit, her hand running for a goblet of water and lemon.

“Lyseni are known to have very pale skin,” added the knight of House Marbrand, bringing her a small pot of honey, to sweeten the water. “The same for the noblewomen of Old Blood, in Volantis.”

Brienne nodded mechanically to thank ser Addam, and the lion took it for an answer. “So, it's Volantis. A tiger, hopefully,” he commented, smirking.

The maid shared a quick look with Septa Roelle, and the latter intervened, patting on her sister's arm, so that started again the familiar _tik-tik-tik_ of the dozen wooden needles Donyse was simultaneously moving on the lace pillow. “You're right, ser. The lady Brienne's mother was born in Volantis.”

The truth was the only reasonable choice, yet it was odd to hear her Septa selling a truth that was practically a lie. Because Brienne's mother was only accidentally born in Volantis, where her parents had been sent for reasons longtime forgotten, in the sumptuous palace left to the city by the triarch Trianna inside the huge Black Wall of dragonstone, but she had spent there no more than a fortnight.

The sound of a polite _knock_ was truly welcome to break the strange atmosphere in the room, and Sansa's face was the loveliest of the surprises. The girl wasn't alone, but accompanied by another pretty maid, by a wrinkled woman who must be her Septa, and by a man who was decisively not a nortman, nor a Westerosi, and who was panting in a pitiful way. Blond, not too old, with a forked yellow beard, his features showed the faint traces of a past beauty, that the excessive fat had disarranged or covered.

The man bowed in a way Brienne had never seen before, and in the confusion created by the girl's comments on the length of her braid, on her chamber, on her whatever, she didn't understand the name of the stranger, only that he was an expert of hairdressing and garbs.

She didn't know there were experts in such useless things, and even Jaime looked more bewildered than annoyed, whilst the man talked of the necessity to dedicate a few hours in oiling Brienne's mass of straw, and Sansa moved, almost danced, restlessly, from a part of the room to another, running her delicate fingers on the wooden panels, stroking the smooth brocade of the red canopy and of the other draperies, giggling in unison with her brown-haired friend whose name was Jeyne Poole - “ _like a water pool , my lady, but with the_ e” - in front of the portrait of the Good Queen Alysanne as a young huntress and archer. The three Septas were suddenly too busy in confronting noisily about the best method to deal with undisciplined pupils to notice the entrance of a valet, wearing a coat striped blue-and-pink, that consigned to Pod a basket full of tiny blue flowers and a small leather case, wrapped in a costly black lace.

The valet refused to give any explanation, and before Brienne could think or say something, Ser Addam had already opened the case and three rounds of pearls, dark as temptation, were hanging from his strong hand. Jeyne Poole made a little jump, and the Septas went finally mute, but in return it was the fat man who started clapping his hands vigorously, his belly bouncing up and down, along with a couple of heavy, sagging breasts. “Perfect! Simply perfect for the dress you'll wear tomorrow, my lady”, the Essosi exclaimed.

“Tomorrow?”, Brienne asked, her gaze lingering on Sansa, which looked petrified.

“Tomorrow, my lady, at the funeral of the High Septon,” explained the self-proclaimed king of hair, whilst Brienne followed Sansa's glance till the big diamond sparkling among all those pearls and flowers, and, beyond the necklace, till the two emeralds that were fixed on the stranger, angry and wide.

“The lady Brienne is not going to any funeral,” said the lion, and the other man just stroked his beard, slowly, in quite an impudent manner, which contrasted with the humbleness of his words. 

“I’m just a servant,” the fat man lamented, “it was Lord Varys that sent me, ser, with the King’s assent.”

“Impossible. The King has gone hunting,” replied the kingsguard, dryly.

“The King? Hunting? Oh no, ser, it can’t be, the King is here in the Red Keep, I saw him, the Lord Hand, the Master of Whisperers and other great Lord with my own eyes, all gathered in front of a door flanked by a pair of ancient Valyrian sphinxes.”

The breeze coming from sea shifted a curl made of gold - apart that, ser Jaime of the Kingsguard had become so still that Brienne breathed again only when he turned, all of sudden, towards her and, with no hint of an explanation, lifted her like a sack of turnips. 


	119. Flanked by sphinxes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NED'S POV

KING'S LANDING - THE RED KEEP - THE SMALL COUNCIL CHAMBER

The Small Council ended even before beginning, at least for the master of laws. The former master of laws, now, and soon former Lord of Storm's End, if he wouldn't have been able to put some sense in Robert's thick head.

Judging from how the King's huge hands were both closed into fists, the knuckles white with rage and frustration, it was decisively easier for Ned to get a good beating than to tame a couple of wild stags, but he was a Stark of Winterfell and the more the winds of winter blew harshly, the more a Stark of Winterfell would have resisted.

“Ser Barristan, follow Lord Renly,” he said, marking deliberately the word Lord, careless of Robert's accentuate snorting, “Don't let him alone, not even for a heartbeat, in order to ensure his safety, until the trial that will clarify his complete and absolute innocence.”

“Yes, follow that idiot, and tell him... oh, don't tell him anything, he's too green and stupid to understand.” The King concluded, and finally sat, when the door opened and closed, this time without violence, bringing away the Hand's only ally in this lavish, horrible room.

The Grand Maester was a Lannister creature, the Master of Whisperers held the same position he had previously held for another King and Ned had no doubt he would hold it even for a third or a fourth King - and not necessarily for Robert's sons and heirs. _And Littlefinger... Littlefinger serves only Littlefinger_ , Ned realized, once more, smelling a gust of satisfaction behind the man's apparently contrite demeanor.

“Lord Renly is not even twenty,” began Pycelle, his spotted fingers slightly trembling whilst they caressed nervously some papers. “At his age, the corporal fluids...”

“Bah. Renly's head is full of piss, that's sure. No one doubts about him, still, the trial is necessary, for the realm, and for his own sake. Stupid, blind boy.” The tall chair which back was an elaborate twine of gilded antlers sighed whilst the King shifted his mass on the its cushions, his hands now stroking pensively the jet-black beard. “Let's talk about the other fucking problems, and call Lancel or the other golden idiot they gave me as a squire, I have a thirst.”

 _The trial is effectively necessary, or Renly's honor will be stained for life_ , Ned considered, bitterly. He had insisted for the trial to be celebrated, but wondered how the smallfolk might react to the fact that the Queen wouldn't be among the accused. The King had been unmovable on the matter, and the Hand couldn't but agree with him, in the end. Like the king, the queen was sacred, and not even King Aegon IV the Unworthy had ever dared to put his unfortunate wife at trial, because it would have provoked almost surely a war, and, mostly, because it would have involved doubts about the legitimacy of both Queen Naerys' children - included the princess Daenerys, whose paternity no one had ever questioned, not even the corrupted king.

The rigidity of the royal succession law pointed out by the Grand Maester at dawn, before the council, was a thing that Ned had never pondered with the right attention. His stomach, all his body was rebelling to the thought of letting the Lannister woman go unpunished for what had happened to Bran, and maybe to Jon Arryn, but now Ned had to be sure of her involvement, have proofs solid like the stones with which Winterfell had been built and find a way not to destroy innocent lives.

 _Joffrey is Joffrey, but what about Myrcella and Tommen? They're just cubs, lovely cubs._ Foul rumors about their mother were already spreading, however. The Lord Commander of the gold cloaks had reported to the Hand many tales about the Queen - unbelievable tales, just plucked out of nowhere, like that singer who would have boasted to have bedded a lioness as a reward for a song – and the Hand must consider the effects of such rubbish. _Or the effects of Renly's rage. It's not just the trial to have upset him, it's the betrothal, or, better, the non-betrothal._ The King had been too harsh and quick about it, so Renly's mood was comprehensible, but still a crack, and there were too many cracks, after the shakes. Too many troubles. The homeless, the poor ones, the widows of the fishermen lost in the sea because of waves too high, all demanding a visit, a glance, a piece of bread. At least, in all this mess, the Evenstar hadn't seemed too much displeased at the news that the betrothal between is daughter and the Lord of Storm's End needed to be deferred. _Deferred is not the right word. Suspended, with no ties for any of the parts. Well, remaining the King's ward, any proposal for lady Brienne's hand shall receive the King's approval, and that's not what Lord Selwyn wished, that's certain._

The King nodded, satisfied, to the Spider's report about the organization of the High Septon's funeral.

“Spare me the details. All must be quick, and ordered,” Robert commanded. “Find a way, with the girl. She must look healthy, and walk down the aisles of the Sept, for Gods' sake.”

“About this, certain complaints are foreseeable, by her Lord Father”, replied lord Varys, his face imperturbable underneath the thick layer of powder. They say he had been imperturbably calm even during the earthquake. “And by ser Jaime, too,” he added, mellifluous.

“Two brothers weren't enough, the Gods above inflicted me with a good-brother, too. What does our pretty lion want now?”, asked Robert, emptying another cup of wine. The squire, Tyrek, refilled it immediately.

“He has often expressed the wish to go back to his ordinary tasks, and, seeing the tension rising between him and the Evenstar, my humble advice is to replace ser Jaime with...”

“Why? If the Father above is merciful, they will kill each other, and get us rid of them in a single lucky moment,” Robert guffawed, and gave Ned a cordial pat on the forearm. “Come on, my sullen Lord Hand, I'm just joking, I know that you and ser Barristan have grown fond of the Lord of Tarth, and I don't blame you, I like stubborn people, me too.”

The Grand Maester coughed, and took a deep breath before talking. “About ser Jaime, his bravery has been often praised, lately, so I wonder if he shouldn't deserve the honor to sit in the Small Council. As an advisor, of course.”

“An advisor. Interesting,” broke in the master of coin, smirking. “For a while, I had the suspect you would suggest ser Jaime as the new master of war.” A shadow appeared on Robert's face. “But, of course, no one would ever think of replacing the Lord of Dragonstone, not now that his last letter announced his travel back to the capital. However, it's beyond doubt that ser Jaime has revealed to be very, very dutiful. Ah, a cloak and a keep are nothing, compared to a maiden's kiss.”

Ned froze on his chair, and the Grand Master Pycelle grabbed the table with both hands, but Robert answered with a booming laugh, any shadow vanishing from his features. “It depends on the maiden, I'd say,” he teased, struggling to recuperate his breath. “However, do me a favor, Lord Petyr, find me the money to rebuilt this hideous city, and close your pretty mouth about the rest. We're not going to discuss anything concerning the white cloaks, without their Lord Commander, so let's go to my favorite part: the crows. Have you already read the new messages, Lord Hand?”

Ned shook his head. “Only the ones that arrived yesterday, all coming from the Crownlands. In Stokeworth, a vase had fallen on the head of lady Falyse's husband, killing him. No other victims, or serious damages.”

“Ser Balman Byrch will be remembered in Baelor's Sept, tomorrow,” added the Spider, “to sooth the lady Tanda's sufferings.”

“The lady Tanda is a good woman, I'm sorry for her. What the crones in the Citadel say about the shakes?”

“It's too early to have news from Oldtown, Your Grace,” the Grand Maester replied, his voice suddenly hesitant. “We got a message from Lord Celtigar, though. Lord Ardrian laments the loss of all the ships on Craw Isle, and asks for provisions and help.”

The King waved a hand in the mild air, interrupting Pycelle. “Lord Ardrian is only able to lament, and he's the perfect portrait of greed. No wonder he asks for something, he always asks, and never gives. What else?”

It was an old man, not the Grand Maester, to answer, now. “The letter, the letter says that there was an enormous cloud, gray and red, raising from the sea in tempest, and ashes and tiny dark stones falling from the sky. We received a similar letter also from Rook's Rest. Lord Staunton's maester has a Myrish lens, and claims that the rain of ashes was coming from the Dragonmont.”

“The Dragonmont?” All color had gone from Robert's face. “What Cressen writes about it?”

“Your Grace, we had no crows from Dragonstone, nor from Driftmark. And lord Stannis' ship should be on sight, by now, but nobody has spotted it in all Blackwater Bay.”


	120. Bonfires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE AMBITIOUS CAPTAIN'S POV

THE NARROW SEA

She was the Kraken’s daughter, and she wasn’t afraid of storms.

She had smelled the wind, such a sudden, unknown wind after too many days of calm, and she had brought her ship offshore, far from the small harbor in the northern part of Bloodstone, to face the storm in open sea.

 _I’ve been right_ , Asha decided after the worst was gone. The harbor they had left was just a small cove, and probably the Lyseni and Tyroshi ships remained there had been washed up to the shore, and crashed. _The waves, I’ve never seen such incredible waves._ She got distracted, and the needle pierced too deeply in Qarl’s flesh, but he made no sound. He was still half unconscious, for the loss of blood from the ugly wound he had gained whilst climbing the mast to cut the ropes tensing the sails, just an instant before the wind would rip them, or fill them all together and turn the ship upside down.

Qarl had been very lucky, Lorren less. He had tried the same thing, and fallen, and Asha had spotted him, his legs twisted beneath him, a moment later he was gone, his axe still uselessly planted in the wood floor of the _Black Wind_ since the sea had claimed him - now he was surely raising toasts with mermen, and beautiful mermaids in the abysses.

The waves had been really tall, unnaturally tall, but her men were still all there, but for Lorren, Droopeye Dale and another oarsman, called… called… Asha had been so busy for days, and nights, that she hardly recalled her name, and her crew needed rest, too. They couldn’t rest, however.

 _The storm has dragged us north, northern than Cape Wrath_ , Asha found out, when she recognized the profile of Tarth. The sapphire island, and its immaculate, harsh mountains whipped with a violent blue or a velvet rose, ending directly into the clouds - or maybe it was mist, quite a solid, soft mist, sparkling, reminding Asha the lace of ice she had seen only deep in the north, in Bear Island.

In the Reader's hall, older captains than her had often evoked Tarth, like a man evokes a prohibited woman. Asha knew that the island was blessed with golden field and soft meadows, protected from the fiercest winds by the mountain chain she was admiring, and that its western and inner coasts were an endless row of shores bright with rock crystals and tiny pieces of corals, or green and yellow dunes degrading to the sea, with rosemary, myrtle and salt cedars spreading their perfume in the air, to invite, and cozen the sailors. Apart a few passages like the Straits and some natural harbors, which were well guarded by the Evenstar's fleet, the shores and all those coasts were shielded by treacherous rocks and sudden shallows, and by the ship-wreaking storms, obviously.

The storms were even worse, in that damned triangle of water in which they were sailing right now, with half the Black Wind in need of being fixed, and the eastern coasts of Tarth were stony, with monstrous stacks glaring at them, and Asha was beginning to despair about finding a place where to land, and refill the ship with water and some food, too. All of their barrels had been lost, and they hadn’t enough provisions to get back to the Stepstones, or sailing till Pentos. Not that Asha would like to go to a city full of greedy merchants and slaves, who were decisively slaves, in facts, if not in the name.

She spat, and narrowed her dark eyes. Fires, she was seeing bonfires on the coast. Hagen squeezed his red-haired daughter in his arms, and even Rolfe the Dwarf smiled a shy, tired smile, watching at the signals on the coast. Because there were clearly signals from the coast, from small boats defying the evening tides, showing a fissure, an opening, a dark blue, liquid path between the rocks that Asha would never have been able to notice all by herself, and would never be able to find again, for a certainty.

  
  


That night she slept in a real bed, in a house of stone, the belly filled with mead, meat and juicy fruits that made her dizzy and somehow happy, curled up to to Qarl's body, listening to his comforting snoring and to the rain pealing outside, wondering if she hadn't been a fool in accepting to go to King's Landing, and rescue a maiden who was tall like Rolfe, and uglier, they had said. In the end, she was a Greyjoy, the future Lord Reaper of Pyke and Lord of the Iron Islands - a sea captain, not a fucking knight.

  
  


"We're Ironborn, and sea men, not fucking idiots who enjoy more riding a stupid horse than riding a good, warm, salt wife," burst out Grimtongue, and Roggon approved with a curse and an energetic stroke to his red beard, a few days later, when they spied the wreck.

A wreck with some people aboard, still, and a torn flag, black and golden, which haunted the dreams of many widows in Great Wyk. Asha recalled her first flowering, the blood thick and wet between her thighs, and the news of Rodrick's death, outside the walls of Seagard, brought by a crow that same morning. Her mother had cried, and it was weird to see her weep, weirder than the cramps in her belly. Even Grimtongue had lost a couple of brothers in the war, and his father, too, in Great Wyk, so it was no wonder if he didn't like the thought of getting close to the ship adrift, and save the King's damned brother.

 _Not that remains something to save of Stannis Baratheon, or of his ship_ , Asha realized, when she climbed aboard the ghost of what was, once, the infamous, gorgeous _Fury._

" _There's always a banquet under the sea, the merwifes drink the sweetest water and eat both oysters and pearls_ ”, begged a man, the flesh sagging from his red-and-green cheeks. A slave, once a men's slave, now one of the Drowned God's slaves.

 _He has surely drank too much salt water, this one_ , Asha though, and realized she ought to throw him off board, to be merciful. Lacking the mercy and the pearls, she tossed him a piece of the acidulous, hard cheese, instead, and a flask of pale ale, from the provisions that some other fools had gifted her in Tarth, for a promise that she had no intention to fulfill - not at all.

She was the Kraken's daughter and she wasn't afraid of promises – vain words, that, like bonfires, lost totally their sense in the daylight.


	121. The truce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SER BARRISTAN'S POV

THE RED KEEP - MAEGOR'S HOLDFAST - PRINCESS MYRCELLA'S GARDEN

He had the tendency of forgetting how similar lord Renly was to his brother, but now, with the hair bunched up so tightly to seem short and with eyes soaked with blue and fury, the Lord of Storm's End looked any inch the King in his youth.

And the Queen, her resemblance with the Kingslayer was really remarkable, even if her smile was quite different from her twin's smile. The Queen's smile had always something cold, like now - two perfect rows of icy pearls, with lips not too slim, not too full, simply perfect. _The same, deadly perfection of swords swirling in the ai_ r, Ser Barristan thought, while bowing respectfully to the beautiful woman, dressed with a smoke-gray gown, with sleeves long till her knees and slashed with red and crimson.

“My lord Commander, Renly, how nice to see you in our _private_ garden,” the Queen said, sarcasm sharpening her voice, and waved a hand towards the children, who were playing among the flowerbeds in their pale green clothes, carefully avoiding the puddles under the attentive gaze of a dozen red cloaks and of an army of servants and septas.

“Cersei, I'd hoped to enjoy a bit the company of Tommen and Myrcella,” explained the King's brother, answering with a genuine smile to the little cry of welcome made by the kind prince, “without any other complications”.

“ _Other_ complications? What happened, Renly? Has Robert decided that the woods are too damps after the rain and that it was easier to find some pretty fawns in the Red Keep? Or did you leave the Small Council so early because you still have to find the proper clothes for your betrothal banquet?” The gems on the Queen's hairnet gave a blood spark, when she tilted elegantly her head, and accepted a bundle of tiny daisies from the princess. “Or was it for your trial?”

“A trial, uncle Renly?”, asked the princess, concerned, and prince Tommen arrived, red and sweated for the run, reaching out his arms.

“Of course, Myrcella, my trial. That is, the greatest trial ever.”

The Lord of Storm's End petted the lovely girl’s curls, and picked the prince up, finding somewhere the strength to relax his handsome features in another smile, defiant. _Too defiant._ Ser Barristan blinked, struggling to recognize the young man that, just a couple of days before, was adrift, yanked and pulled and lost. 

“Greater even than the one to ser Duncan the Tall, at Ashford Meadows,” the King's brother added and lanced himself in the tale, in such a frenetic, captivating way that the children ignored their mother's calls, and listened, totally enraptured, gaping when the humble hedge knight demanded a trial of seven, giggling when the Laughing Storm joined ser Duncan's side, sniffing loudly when prince Baelor died at the hand of his brother Maekar, clapping their hands when the cruel prince Aerion yielded and the innocent man was finally declared free of all charges.

“But did ser Duncan wed a princess, nuncle?”, asked the prince, scratching pensive his chin. “The hero always weds a princess.”

“Don't tell idiocies, Tommen, ser Duncan was the whelp of some tavern wench, it is known. Now come here”, urged Queen Cersei. “Time to leave.”

“I believe that the Lannister wit flows very strong in our prince’s veins, because ser Duncan the Tall wed effectively a pretty princess, in the end,” chuckled Lord Renly, tickling the child among the muffled cheers of the serving girls, then let prince Tommen down, amused and breathless, “and, wonder of wonders, their descendant is here at court, and she’s so gentle and noble, that she’s worth.”

“Worth of a cream cake?”

“Worth of putting your name and honor at risk, Tommen,” laughed the youth. “More or less the equivalence of seven thousand seven hundred and seventy-seven cream cakes.” 

Se Barristan coughed, and a sob escaped from the mouth of a very young and very excited septa, provoking a thrilled motion in the small garden. The Queen's comely face was distorted by a grimace, but only for a moment. She regained quickly her composure, her smile shining now like the gold in her hair as she noticed her twin, striding among bushes of late roses and high marble vases with white buttercups, bluebells and yellow daffodils, the mossy green of his garb confounding itself with the grass and the leaves, the gold of the silk details being enhanced by the cold whiteness of his cloak.

More than a woman sighed, and someone swooned - probably the same silly septa of before, but ser Barristan couldn't be sure of it, his blue gaze having come back to lord Renly, now leaned towards the princess to whisper something in her ears. The pretty child laughed, and laughed even more when ser Jaime hinted at bow at her, and at her only. The rest of the kingsguard's greetings were rushed off, and soon he addressed to his lord Commander, begging a word, privately.

“Why, brother?”, hissed the Queen, visibly piqued, “Once you enjoyed spending some time in our company.”

“Such a pleasant company, indeed,” smirked lord Renly. “Please, stay, ser Jaime, and I'll replace you at the lady Brienne's side. They say that tomorrow she will wear a magnificent set of pearls, black like the Baratheon stag, Tommen.”

“We'll see”, ser Jaime replied, coldly, before turning towards his sibling. “Sister, I have to leave you, unfortunately. My lord Commander?”

Ser Barristan had no chance but to follow him and, luckily or maybe not too luckily, lord Renly decided to take their same path, leaving behind dozens of eyes, dreamy, brilliant and moist.

“The presence of the Maid of Tarth at the funeral, tomorrow, has it already been decided?” ser Jaime asked, low and firm, glaring at the King's brother. He swore under his breath, when ser Barristan stern face told him that there was no other possibility. “She can’t, she can barely do a few steps,” the younger man said, his voice dropping to a murmur. “It’s too early, and all those alleys and streets... It’s a folly, and not only for the crowd's possible reaction.”

“Ser Jaime isn't wrong”, intervened, surprisingly, the Lord of Storm's End. “We still don't know who harmed Brienne, and why. I doubt it’s just for an old sword.” Dark Sister, annihilated to the rank of an old sword - it was even worse than comparing honor to cream cakes, and both the white cloaks halted so brusquely, that Lord Renly stumbled on the one which looked ready to tear him apart. “Ser Jaime, you shouldn’t look at me that way,” went on the young Lord, midway between caution and fun. “It has been Brienne who told me about Bloodraven’s sword… well, actually she wrote it to me. She was worried that I might find it odd, or disappointing, when everybody else at court would hang tapestries of lord Brynden Rivers all around themselves, to point it out even for spiders and rats.”

“She’s not fit for the court,” commented ser Jaime, starting again to walk, his eyes wandering on the cobbles. Not for the first time of the day ser Barristan wished that the girl may leave King's Landing with her father, and soon.

“Brienne’s more duttile than you’d believe. Yet, tomorrow... I’m not allowed to come, tomorrow, the King thinks that it’s not good for me be seen out of the Maegor's Holdfast, until the trial will be over.” It was lord Renly’s turn to study the cobbles, now.

“I wouldn’t complain, in your place,” said ser Jaime, and sneered. “Just think to our beloved Hand.”

A smile resurfaced on Lord Renly’s face. “I can count myself fortunate not to be already in a cell, I suppose.” They had arrived at the gate, and ser Jaime lingered there, dubious.

“I need ser Arys, even if it’s too early even for him, and any knight you can give me,” he finally said. 

Ser Barristan nodded. “Ser Arys will sit in the litter with the lady, but ser Preston and ser Meryn must be with me, following the King.”

“Ser Addam Marbrand will help, I was wondering if the Knight of Flowers, and maybe some other knights from the Reach…”, ser Jaime didn't end his sentence, pale, glancing again at the Lord of Storm's End, the unspoken question suspended in midair.

Lord Renly’s smile widened. “I'd say any knight in this crowded city will be honored to come, and risk to end in a song.”

 _And risk to die_ , thought ser Barristan, but said nothing, enjoying the unexpected truce, and the uncertain light, filtering through new clouds. Gray clouds, heavy and smelling a sour smell of fear and ashes. King Aerys had the same smell on him, when he had been carried off Duskendale, but the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard didn't recall that day too gladly. He remained with lord Renly in Maegor's Holdfast, watching ser Jaime hurrying past the gate, and then coming back, all of sudden, his eyes chained to lord Renly's eyes.

“About the trial, my lord,” the Kingslayer begun, impulsively, and ser Barristan tensed. “For what my word is worth, I think they're doing you a wrong, and others should be charged,” ser Jaime concluded, and twisted on himself, leaving no time for a reply, the cloak swirling an unbelievably white swirl. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me for allowing the groupies invade Westeros


	122. The black voile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SER ARYS' POV

KING'S LANDING - THE RED KEEP - THE LADY BRIENNE'S TOWER

The old man coughed, then coughed again, shacking his spotted head.

“I'm so disappointed, ser, I offered my new litter, which is closed on both sides with gilded doors, and embellished with ermine and precious silk from Qarth, but Lord Varys and that unbearable sack of lard that he has brought from Pentos... You must tell the lady, you must tell her that I offered the new one, and not that old palanquin, and why they painted all it in black, I wonder,” Lord Rosby was repeating, and coughing, restlessly, and ser Arys mumbled something to sooth him, but his mind was elsewhere, and his eyes were looking for someone else.

> “ _I'm glad to see you even tomorrow, ser,” she told him, her lashes long and drunk with tiredness, as she curled in ser Jaime's arms, to be brought again in her chamber. Just a few steps from ser Arys' chamber. The knight of Old Oak could scarcely sleep that night - the concern for the morrow, surely. It was only that._

Now the morrow had come and the ground floor of the lady's tower was crowded with velvet and steel, but all lords and knights seemed beggars compared to the younger son of Lord Mace Tyrell. The Lady Tanda had chosen ser Loras' shoulder to weep on, and her simpleton daughter was looking at him open-mouthed, as if she had seen a dream come true, yet underneath the gems and the metal lace, the kingsguard was confident in the solidity of the Knight of Flower's armor, and blade. Green as he was, ser Loras had unhorsed even ser Jaime in the joust for prince Joffrey's name day - and also all other knights were good at arms, they must be.

_Nine_ , ser Arys counted. Lord Bryce Caron with Lord Yohn Royce and his sons, attracted in King's Landing by the tourney that had been announced and then forgotten, then the reachers - ser Ben of House Bushy, ser Hyle Hunt from Lord Randyll's own household, ser Mark Mullendore and other three new ones, from House Crane, Cuy and Ambrose, stout, well build warriots that he had never met before.

_Eleven, with ser Jaime Lannister and ser Addam Marbrand. A dozen with me, if I'd been able to ride._ The armor worn by ser Arys was just a mummer's disguise, his helm no more than a wig of white enameled steel and golden plumes.

> “ _I-I'm so sorry, ser.” She took a deep breath, and ser Arys wished that his sleeveless shirt wasn't half unlaced. Damned bandages. “Does it hurt so much?”, she added, and no, it did still hurt a bit when the heart galloped like a wild horse, but not too much. Never too much._

Lord Gyles Rosby left the young knight's side with an unexpected agility, to join the lady Tanda and the lady Lollys, both hurrying to the staircase. The heavy palanquin, entirely wrapped with jet-black silk, the groups forming and reforming in the limited space, they made ser Arys see just a few things. A glimpse of bronze, first, and he was uncertain if it was coming from the stunning armor of the Lord of Runestone, forged when the Old Gods still ruled the world, or from the burning tree wonderfully etched on the breastplate usually wore by the heir of Ashemark.

_It's ser Addam_ , the kingsguard decided, glimpsing also a white tunic, the lion of House Lannister roaring gold on the candid silk. Ser Arys' heart jumped in his throat, because if ser Jaime was there, she must have arrived, too _._ Ser Arys didn't move, yet, he must remain at his place, still as a statue, not showing his weakness, as if the Lord Commander were there, and could look at him. The lady Lollys, for a moment, disappeared in a embrace of black velvet, and her lady mother had tears on her cheeks and a smile on her thin lips – her face now so serene that you didn't notice the wrinkles, only the brightness of two round, fond eyes.

> _She raised her chin, shyly, and the light invaded the bedroom. “I hope you don't mind, ser Arys, if we've come without being invited”, she said, apologetically. “Ser Jaime, well, sometimes, he doesn't ask my opinion, or, simply, wait.” She looked again down, trying to hide herself under the blanket of the bed, where she had been abandoned too hastily. She wore no shoes, or boots, and had freckles even on her ankles – but a knight shouldn't see the ankles of a lady, and ser Arys blushed even more then her._

It was time to leave, if they wanted to pass by the harbor before the funeral and allow the lady greet her father. The litter moved, and now it was up to ser Arys to climb into it. He was ready to fight, he was ready to kill or be killed, but he wasn't ready for that.

She was wearing black from head to foot.

Black was her damask dress, simply cut, lined with silk velvet, which only ornaments were the long, draped sleeves, edged with a dagging so thick and elaborated that hid completely her hands.

Black were the pearls resting sinuous on her breast - three rows of pearls, alternated to tiny silver spheres and jointed to an impressive oval diamond, sparkling, surrounded by other dark, smaller gems.

Black was, finally, the fine voile, falling, in a very soft drapey, from the four-strand braid which was crowning her forehead like a white-gold ring.

The thin fabric covered all her face, but the eyes - and they had done something to her eyes, they had put some coal or whatever to accent them, and now two twin moons were in front of him, living a such a blue, endless, intense life to shame the color of mourn.

No one could be prepared to that. His tongue failed him, and she pulled back even more, her hunched shoulders plowing into the cushion of the back, as if she’d like to be swallowed by silk.

“We’re ready,” ser Addam said, and the palanquin was lifted, the pearls dancing dark on the smooth damask. He drifted his gaze.

Now they were at the same height with the men ahorse, but slow, terribly slow, and the knights were forced to keep their mounts at a small pace to remain at the side of the heavy litter.

They left behind the Red Keep, and, after a while, the street became unnaturally large, and empty, with the exception of few, scattered folks, who stared at them, inert, like cows in a lawn. A child climbed up a small pile of dirt and ruins, and shouted something before running like hell down the hill – the lady’s eyes widened as she noticed ser Jaime making a warning signal to the knight at his left, and Ser Arys’ jaw clenched, finally recognizing the place.

“It has been here,” she murmured, and he nodded, his throat too dry to reply, recalling the slithering _squish_ made by the blade when it pierced so easily through his flesh. He felt a feather touch, brief as a sigh, yet it made him startle like a squire at his first bruise. Brienne’s hand resumed to bother the braid on her brow, first, and then a blond strand that had escaped the voile. Her hair was so long, actually, now that ser Arys could see it almost all loose. “I’ve never thanked you, ser, for having helped me and my Father, that night,” she suddenly said, low voice.

“It was your Father that did help me, more than I could do for him”, the kingsguard confessed, masking the concern – ser Robar Royce was galloping back towards them, a bit too hastily to bring good news. “I’m sorry the Evenstar is leaving so soon, my lady. His task is a very noble one,” he added, and sadness filled her eyes, while she looked at ser Jaime, who was intent in listening to the knight from Runestone.

That very morning Lord Selwyn was meant to sail with a little fleet for Dragonstone or what remained of Dragonstone and the other islands before the opening of the Blackwater Bay, to rescue their people. A dangerous mission, and, for what he knew, they had left the lady no more than a couple of hours to bid farewell to her father. That was why ser Jaime had insisted and obtained that they all left very early in morning, and make such a long path – but, luckily, they were already passing through Fishmonger’s Square, and even there the smallfolk were dispersed, and at respectful distance from the litter. 

“My lady Brienne, ser Arys,” begun ser Jaime, and his voice was as sharp as an incoming danger. 


	123. No means no

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JAIME'S POV

KING'S LANDING - FISHMONGER'S SQUARE

The first drop of rain fell on the bridge of her nose, where the skin was still free to flush and enrage, without that fucking voile meddling and fussing with freckles. Another of the eunuch's brilliant idea, as if dressing the wench like a scarecrow or hiding her homeliness might change her in someone else.

“The smallfolk are not expecting to see a maiden, they're expecting to see the Maiden, and the Maiden we'll give them,” the Spider had said, conceited, bringing the wench before a mirror that reflected just a tall wench - a very stubborn wench. She had stubbornly refused to look herself in the mirror, and even more stubbornly, she had refused to wear a pair of embroidered slippers that were clearly too small for the two trading cogs she had for feet.

Sometimes the wench was right to balk - the horrid gown she had been forced to accept had even a train, and it was long enough to hide a pair of old, honest boots - but now she was decisively wrong.

“I can't walk for long, but I can ride. I'm sure I can,” she insisted. “You have my word that I'll bring you back Honor as soon as I can. Fishermen are good people, no need to scary them with a dozen knights and as much guards.” She lowered her voice, but her eyes remained fixed on Jaime's eyes. Their blue was still the same sea blue, and the lines half concealed by her forehead braid were as boring as usual - the wench remained the wench, no matter what a few idiots and lickspittles could say or feign. “This ...procession is quite ridiculous, you know.”

About that, she was right again. _The Maiden._ Jaime was about to snort again, as he had noisily done when Varys had come out with such a sentence, but something restrained him.

Something in the way she was torturing her hands under the heavy edge of the sleeves - ells and ells of brocade cut in tiny pieces, sewed in a old-fashioned manner, and decisively wasted on her - but also something in ser Arys' face. Lady Arwyn Oakheart's son hadn't deserved to be trapped in such a parade, and, yet, he was the kind of man who might believe in such a parade. _He decisively believes it's all real, like he believes it's the color of a man's cloak that makes the man,_ Jaime decided, and decided to swallow the cutting remark that was escaping out of his mouth. He doubted that, Addam excluded, the lords and knights participating to the farce in their best garbs would approve his wits.

“I-I apologize, ser Arys, I meant no offense,” the wench went on, lowering finally her glance. “Why should I fear some fishermen or sailors? They respect the sea, I respect the sea, I was even born on a ship.”

“On a ship,” he interrupted her, shaking his head in a swirl of gold. Unbidden, Jaime's thought run to his father, commenting how a true lady would have born in a castle.

 _But she's no lady, only a wench_ , replied a Imp in his mind. This Imp had a weird mix of black and gold on his too big head, and Jaime had been missing him more than he would ever admit, these last days. Jaime missed his brother's sober version, at least, the drunken one would have ended crushed under tons of bricks, still entangled to a whore, so it was better for Tyrion to be in the North, enjoying a bit of healthy cold.

Another drop of rain fell on her, leaving a gray trail on the silk, damned rain and damned all the eunuchs and hogs of the world. _An opened palanquin,_ chuckled the Imp and Jaime almost swore.

“Please, ser, I just want to see my father.”

“No,” he repeated for the last time.

The ruins of the Mud Gate had been moved, and now the square showed a tremendous gash where the imposing fortification had stood for centuries. Jaime had no illusions. The wound before him was not healing well, and soon it would have festered, pouring out a lot of desperates, coming form the docks.

The sea, slowly, had returned the bodies of the unfortunate fishermen and sailors that had been caught unaware by the waves caused by the shakes, and ser Loras and ser Boros had talked of a collective funeral at the harbor, far more humble than the one which had to be celebrated in Baelor's Sept, yet surely a very crowded, heart-felt funeral.

Jaime saw the disconcert in the maid, limpid like the gaze she gave him, before turning back to the hole bringing to the sea.

She had some cleverness in her, some rare times. Probably, she had understood that even her father wasn't exactly in a good position, right now, charged with the foolish task of collecting people willing to sail notwithstanding the weather and all, and for what? For saving Stannis Baratheon's stiff arse. Jaime didn't care about Stannis, no one cared about Stannis, and, about the Evenstar, if the old man was wise, he would have stayed safe aboard his fucking _Sea Star,_ if not... well _,_ it wasn't Jaime's first problem.

His first and only problem was a stubborn wench, and the rumble increasing in the distance.

“Sorry to intrude, ser, but the lady Brienne can ride with me, and I'll take her safely to her father, and back,” said someone, and it was ser Cunt, a brazen smile on his scarred face, as Jaime twisted on the saddle to glare at him. “My mare is very swift,” the cunt added, as if his rouncey could be exchanged for a true horse.

“My destrier is stronger, and faster, I'll bet,” said another moron, a lordish moron this time, and not coming from the Reach. The man could be tall as Sandor Clegane but his gnarled hands revealed that he had more years than wits, and his dumbness was blinding like the armor he was wearing, that was made of bronze soft as butter compared to some good steel or even the iron of the knife of some oarsman, no matter how many runes were scribbled over the glimmering scales.

Jaime glimpsed another man, a young and well built one, heeling forward his mount, a stallion, harnessed in steel and silk. His jaw tensed, and decided not to give the third intruder, nor to the fourth or the fifth, the time to enter in this inexplicable competition, blatantly leading to a crown of patched cloth and bells, in the best of cases. He refused to think of the worst of sceneries.

“Let here the palanquin. Ser Arys will mount with ser Hyle,” Jaime commanded, fixing the cunt at his poor brother's expenses. “The lady, she'll ride with me.”

 _Behind me_ , he thought, partially amused at the thought of his curls bothering her ugly face, partially annoyed at the hesitance with which she wrapped her thick arms around his waist, once mounted - and surely not because of the cumbersome dress, that would have obliged her to ride dangerously side-saddle if Jaime wouldn't have been, as he was for her luck, a lion, but one of those hateful prigs which were afraid by a bit of skin. Besides all, the wench had shown practically all the her endless legs in the past, and no one had been impressed, at all.

“Tighter, wench, if you don't want to break your oafish head on the cobbles,” he said under his breath when he was sure the others couldn't hear. “Don't dare to swoon, or, at least, have the decency of warning me before swooning, all right?” Honor let out a whinny and covered her reply, but judging from the way her chest adhered, warm and soft, to his back, Jaime had got to put some sense in that wretched wench.

And it had stopped raining, that was really a nice thing.


	124. Krakens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ARYA' S POV

KING'S LANDING - THE RED KEEP - THE HAND'S NEW QUARTERS IN BRIENNE'S TOWER

“Krakens? Past the mouth of the Blackwater Rush?” Her pale blue eyes filled with terror, and it was a nice thing to see. A terrified Sansa was surely more agreeable than the sullen Sansa that had come back from the tall girl’s chamber the day before. Only the such of Sansa might be upset by the fact that Brienne had a room with a huge tiled tub, while they hadn’t - Arya was only glad about it, it reduced the risk of too frequent baths, that were already a far nightmare, in her case, thanking to the splint.

“Don’t think you should take Hot Pie’s words quite literally, sister,” the little she-wolf smirked, caressing the broken legged cat purring on her broken leg. “Or you will end like those idiots who believe that fat southern priest was a saint, or that Brienne has some magic powers because she’s a maiden with blond hair a bit too grown.”

“Her hair is moon silver, while you-know-which-knight has hair of spun gold, it is known”, said Hot Pie, his open mouth showing the fractures on his two front teeth and the piece of buttered bread he was chewing.

Arya glared at him. Not for the open mouth, of course, she was past those little details that interested so much her mother or Septa Mordane. “See, Sansa? Hot Pie rants and raves a bit, since they extracted us from the ruins. So, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t talking about real krakens.”

“Oh, no they were real krakens, with axes and cruel eyes and so on. Their captain was a woman, and what a woman, I see her with my own eyes on the deck of her ship, short dark hair and long bright daggers in both hands, can you understand why I came here with all the speed I can have? You should tell the Hand, m’ladies.”

“We’ll tell Father”, proclaimed solemnly Sansa. Smart Sansa always surrendered to Pretender Queen Sansa, and Smart Sansa was already weak enough not to needed to be stabbed at every “lady”, pouring off the lips of some stupid baker boy.

“Father is already on his way to the great Sept, or busy with the King,” Arya said, and her sister let her needlework down with some impatience, barely concealed. There was still hope, maybe, for Sansa’s wits. “It amounts at the same thing. He’s out of our reach, and, besides all”, Arya glanced down to Hot Pie’s legs, short and very fleshy, “I guess it would be too late.” 

“Oh, no doubt about it, the harbor workers have already torn the krakens apart, by now, if they’ve tried to get to the docks”, confirmed Hot Pie, making another of the odd, musical sounds he unconsciously made at every bit of bread reaching the furnace he had for mouth. A few crumbles fell on his new cotton tunic, and he started picking them all while speaking, “They were so many, the fishermen and sailors and coggers and urchins, I mean, and all blame the krakens for the storm that has swallowed so many good people. The ironmen have only a ship, and not big as the Evenstar’s.”

Sansa jerked on her feet, so brusquely that Hot Pie almost choked on his bite. “Arya…”, she said, the face white and the hair trembling red and brown, in the morning light. “Brienne was leading there, this morrow… with ser Loras.”

“Ser Loras? No, m’lady, it can’t surely be ser Loras. Gendry says that the Knight of Flowers is not the kind of men who enjoy the company of women, you know.” 

“Women? Of course, not. Knights live for ladies, not for common women”, Sansa spat, blood coloring again her cheeks. She turned towards Arya, “And who’s Gendry, now?”

“Just another blue-eyed idiot”, Arya replied, cursing mentally the splint, the shakes, and old black cats that slept and purred in the wrong moment. _Why can’t I dream the dream of a young harbor cat? Why can’t I dream the dream of a wolf, all time long?_ She indulged in the details of her last dream, the deep green of the underwood, the dramatic red of some berries peeking out a thorny bush, the smell of dirt and blood, the taste of blood in her fangs. She was licking her lips when Hot Pie reached for her arm, and woke her.

“Are you hungry, m-lady?”, he asked, full of hope, his round eyes of the same color of the prey’s fur or of the carved table in the narrow room. “We should ask for other white bread and butter, or meat maybe.”

“Stop calling me, m’lady, Hot Pie, or I’ll kick you back to Flea Bottom. Where’s gone Sansa?”

“Don’t know, m- Arry, no, Arya.”

Arya gave a shrug. “It doesn’t matter, Sansa is useful like a cloak in summertime when it comes to fights. Listen, Hot Pie, you must run downstairs and look for a bravoosi swordman whose name is Syrio Forel. He’s bald, not too tall, with a beak of a nose, and often clicks his teeth.”

“Has he got a very thin and sharp blade, and a bright green tunic with sleeves striped red-and-purple?”

“That’s him! Go and tell him that I need another dancing lesson, now.”

Hot Pie looked abashed. “Oh, please no, Arya. Don’t ask me to go back to the docks. They surely don’t need a Hot Pie there, when the Mother above has already sent the Maiden and the Warrior to fight the krakens.” 


	125. The mother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DAVOS' POV

BLACKWATER'S BAY - ABOARD THE BLACK WIND 

The ship rolling caused the lantern to oscillate, and generate monsters of shadow and smoke that made his head ache, and his eyes water. It was just the smoke - Devan had no reasons to drift pityingly his glance away.

“Go and fetch some water, and the milk of the poppy,” Davos ordered his son, his voice thick and bristly like Maric’s beard. Maric, who used to be always shaven, and clean, to forget the onion on their banner and recall only the tall, black ship. Maric, the strongest of his sons, fair and tall like the knight he wished to become, and he would never become. “We need more milk of the poppy.”

“Father, the lady Asha, I mean, the captain has said that Maric can’t bear more milk of the…”

Davos spat on the wooden planks of the narrow cabin floor. “Water, and milk of the poppy, I’ve said.” He watched at the boy leaving, his lean shoulders hunched, his hair swaying thin, brown and dirty. _The portrait of Dale, at his age. The portrait of his own father_ , said a soothing voice in his mind, so similar to Marya’s, _when he was still in Flea Bottom, helping the fishermen in the good days and, in the bad days, begging work or bread on the stairs of the Sept._ The humble Sept facing the crowded port, on the Blackwater Rush, with its statues rough, but painted with the vivid colors of ships coming from all the known world, where most of the worshippers were as poor as Davos, and yet, some coppers ended in his hand, more than he had ever get on the stairs of the richer Septs.

His fingers were whole, those days. Stubby, but whole. He wasn’t a smuggler, still – just a beggar, and beggar had become an unlikely knight, with a pouch full with of tiny bones and weariness. Yet he had to vigil his son, keep him clean, because Maric liked to be clean. Davos cursed, but without making a sound, not wanting to bother the handsome young man lying on the straw mattress, because his hands were stiff, sore, the crude and calloused hands of a lowborn - too stiff to be gentle enough, and Maric moaned louder than usual.

“Mom,” the young man sighed, his eyelids closed, his skin white and grey in the oil lamp.

 _Like lord Stannis’ skin_ , Davos thought, and banished immediately the thought. It was no use of thinking about his lord or about all the men lost on the Fury or about the emptiness under the blanket, where Maric’s right leg should have been, long and strong. Instead, he preferred filling his mind with memories of Marya, the brief, too brief periods in which he was with her, trying to remember her plump cheeks, the soft breast on which the babies slept and dreamed like a king’s babies… Marya wasn’t beautiful - pretty, yes, she had been really pretty to watch upon, when she was sixteen and pregnant of Dale, and her bump was just a small swelling whilst her tits had already begun to change, firm, ripe and stunning good like fruits from the south - but she was the best of mothers, and she would have known how to wash Maric, how to shave him, how to… 

Davos startled, noticing that Devan had come back, with a basin of water, and nothing else. He had brought the lady, her delicate hand, pale and thin, grabbed to Devan’s filthy tunic. The lady, here, her veiled head leaning on Devan’s arm, with Maric feverish and naked under the wool blanket. And no milk of the poppy to sooth Maric’s pain.

“This is not the place for a lady”, Davos managed to murmur to Devan, barely containing his wrath. The lady’s eyes went big like saucers, and their blue became even brighter than usual, but she didn’t move, nor Devan said a word.

It was the kraken’s daughter to made a laugh, instead, capering from the darkness behind the two children - lean, short-haired and long-legged, and always brazen, notwithstanding the simple gray tunic and the black breeches she was wearing. A captain, and a good captain, she must be, seeing how her men followed her lead or how her ship had gone through the storms with no important damages, but she wasn’t a lady. Asha Greyjoy had no right to that honorific, no matter if she was a lord’s daughter. There was no kindness in her, no respect for the Gods and their sons, no mercy. In her smile there was the same sharp white of that damned blade, the easiness with which she had decided there was no place for Maric’s leg on her ship. Fish food. She had made fish food of his son’s flesh, and he would never pardon her for it.

“Tell me, Ser Onion, where was Shireen supposed to be?”, the dark-eyed woman asked, glancing at the stout man following her. “With her crazy lady mother, praying for the Gods to put fire to this miserable ship and end our pains? Or on the deck, enjoying the sun and the lovely babbles her gloomy lord father makes out from time to time?”

Davos felt his fingers twitch, but he had no more his knife with him. They had stripped him of everything they thought unnecessary on him, in the same rough manner they had stripped the _Fury,_ before letting her at the waves. The most beautiful ship that Davos had ever seen, now just a memory – it hurt, it hurt and he hated himself for not knowing the words to describe how it hurt. 

“Lord Stannis will recover soon,” said Devan in his father’s place, and the little lady nodded, a bit hesitant, closing herself even more to the ragged lad. They were so lovely to look upon, together, and that wasn’t a good thing. _The world is going upside down, or, as Patchface says, over the sea …no, no use of thinking about Patchface’s riddles. They’re simply nonsense._

Davos lowered his glance, so noticed the salt stains on the woman’s high boots, as she crouched at Maric’s sickbed to kiss his forehead. She lingered on the kiss, smelling of ale and of morning sex. She was no lady, she wasn’t, but the man standing big and grumpy by the door wasn’t her lover - somehow Davos knew it, and somehow, despite all his hatred for the woman, the sudden softness curving her lips in a girlish smile made his heart beat faster. With hope. 

“About Lord Stannis, we’ll see, but that guy of yours will be better in a few days. His fever has broken, and even the pain is a good sign, you should know it.” A sly wrinkle appeared on her nose, just above the pink scar that someone had drawled on it, as she went on. “Come on, old man. He’ll be fine even without a leg, and if you don’t believe me, believe your eyes. Just look up.”

It took a century to Davos to look up, and when he moved, he moved slower than a sea turtle on the deck of a ship, even slower than maester Cressen, may the Gods have pity of him and all the people on Dragonstone.

Davos saw nothing new, though. He saw Devan, now hand in hand with his sweet lady child, and the man that the Greyjoy woman had brought, and the Greyjoy woman, of course. Lords were complicated, lord’s daughters were even more complicated, too complicated for a smuggler. And a smuggler can hide his boat, but not his thoughts, so Devan blushed like a woman for his father’s blatant confusion, and the she-captain laughed again, reaching with an only self-sure stride the ironman by the door, to _knock_ on his leg.

 _Knock._ The Crone finally lighted her lamp for Davos the dumb.

“This is Harl”, the woman explained, toying with the point of the dirk fastened at her belt, “Six-Toed Harl we call him, because before he lost his leg, he had the good idea of playing with his axes while bathing in a cask of ale, and losing a few toes. Too few, considering he had wasted all that good ale.”

“Well, I drank it all, blood or not blood. ‘t was good,” barked almost kindly Harl, giving in a shrug. “And when I lost my leg for a fall from the foreyard, there was already a Peg-Leg Harl, so I remained Six-Toed Harl. What a fucking luck.”

Shireen, the sweet lady Shireen, sprouted in a mid-giggle, and Devan followed her in the laugh like a loyal dog follows his master. The relief was washing Davos up so hardly and wonderfully that he found himself again unable to speak. Not that he was that good with words, usually. The Greyjoy woman scratched her belly, and waved her hand in an invitation. _More a command, than an invitation, in truth._

“All right, old man,” she said. “Now that we’ve learned that even the a stormlander knight can smile, you should come on the deck, with me. Your son and the lady will stay,” she added, swift, and swift she left, climbing up the deck. The smell hit Davos before the sunlight, and he almost stumbled. He recognized the Blackwater and King’s Landing from its smell even before his eyes adapted to the brightness of the rays piercing through the clouds - a stench of unwashed bodies and corruption, yet it turned him again into a man in his prime.

He was coming home, after all.

The atmosphere was weird, though. He blinked, but the people on the docks stood unmovable, staring at the ship anchored in the middle of the Blackwater Rush instead of working, creepily silent, if not for some shouts. Not shouts welcoming the ship, decisively.

Those screams weren’t apparently annoying the lord that had granted Davos a keep, for Marya and the children - lord Stannis was sitting on a high chair, his eyes open, empty like a thief’s bags before a heist. At least he wasn’t talking, his incoherent talks sent shivers on Davos’ spine, every damned time. Nor the lady Selyse or the fool were luckily in sight, only cold-eyed ironmen and an imposing man, at lord Stannis’ side, a white-haired man, still pleasing in his costly velvet doublet, quartered pink-and-blue.

 _A Lord. The Lord of Tarth_ , ser Davos Seaworth realized, and blinked again. _The last man I would ever though meeting aboard an ironmen ship._

The Greyjoy woman squeezed his forearm, to gain his attention. “That’s why I needed you, ser. I can quickly deal with people wanting to tear me apart like the good fellows of the capital…”, she nodded at the direction of the docks, and a handsome youth winkled at her, his sandy hair half covered by a bandage, that was almost heavy like the one wrapping lord Stannis’ head, “…but Stormlanders… for the Drowned God, Ironborn and Storm Kings weren’t born to understand each other that easily, I fear. So, since you’re a knight of the Dragonstone household, help me with the Evenstar, like I helped your son.”

 _Maric._ Maric was going to live, and have children maybe, one day. Knights or not knights, the sea was wide enough for all Davos’ sons and grandsons to find their place. The sweetness of all that mustn’t make him a fool, however.

“How about the King’s warships?”, he asked, and the woman froze, for an instant.

“Gone, for what I can see and say,” she replied, flatly. “But for the small fleet the Evenstar commands, still too many ships for us, and well placed, or the lord of Tarth would have never accepted to climb aboard my poor Black Wind. So, your moment has come, great knight, tell the Lord of Suns and Moons that we’re pretty good people who rescued the King’s brother, and not pirates.”

“Not pirates”, repeated the Lord of Sun and Moons, stern, acknowledging Davos’ presence with a haughty nod. 

“Never pirates”, the grin on the woman’s face had something of fascinating, in the end. “We like pirates, though, you can’t avoid getting fond of them, when you raid them for months and months”, she smiled. A very intriguing smile, which compensated her nose too big. “So, my lord of Tarth, verified that we’re loyal subjects of the Iron Throne, won’t you object to let us go ashore and get, why not, some nice rewards? Pink cheeked or not, Lord Stannis remains a Baratheon and his lady wife is a Florent, so…”

“Sending me to Dragonstone and to the other isles threatened by the Dragonmont is the Small Council’s gracious way to tell me that my presence is no more needed, nor welcome, at court”, cut the Evenstar, sharply. “Not that I was in King Robert’s grace, even before, so, my lady Greyjoy, I invite you to address our attentive sovereign, or his new Hand, Lord Eddard Stark.”

“Shit. So, it’s true that the old Falcon has kicked the bucket. A pity. Wolves mislike us ironborn, who knows why”, she commented, feigning unaware of centuries of raping and pillaging on the Northern shores. “And, sadly, you’re going to pursue on your way, my Lord, without helping a damsel in distress…”

Some sneers from the crew accompanied the woman’s last sentence, included the woman’s own sneer. The Evenstar raised a brow, only lord Stannis’ face remained still as a chalk mask, and Davos’ fingers reached for his throat, fumbling for the small leather pouch he always wore around his neck.

“I see no damsels in distress, my lady,” said the Lord of Tarth, rigid as the arm that he held tightly at his flank, “but a sea captain, and I’m a captain myself.”

“Go on,” replied the woman, as if Davos had become invisible. Not that Davos was particularly susceptible about lords’ manners. He was used to get unnoticed, and now he was too interested in something that was happening on the docks. The folks had abandoned them, gathering to the entrance of the port, the huge dockers with the skinny urchins, the colored-dressed sailors with the dull-clothed fishermen, and women, there were so many women, all of sudden. And a lady, fair-haired - even from that distance Davos could see her rich dress, with incredibly long sleeves, of silk as black as the Baratheon stag, contrasting with the white of the plaster covering the Sept façade. Then he noticed the knight, all the knights.

“I’ll help you landing safely, my lady, and you won’t move a finger or say a word to anyone, until I’ll be beyond the Blackwater mouth, in the open sea. I’m asking you nothing of dishonorable, I just want to bring my daughter at home, safe,” the Lord of Tarth was saying, whilst the fair-haired lady begun descending the stairs in front of the Sept, towering among the women all around her.

The crowd was _all_ moving around her and her white knight, slowly, in circles, as if the tall girl dressed in black was a pebble launched in a pond, and the people were the ripples, or dragonflies dancing on the ripples.

It was strange, enchanting, and Davos barely felt the presence of the Greyjoy woman, now leaned, as he was, on the ship rail.

“Nothing of dishonorable, of course”, she said, breathing quickly. “You have my word, my lord, if you care about it. Just a condition.” The Evenstar reached them and the crew, all observing from the rail what was the hell was happening on the mainland. “Tell me that your daughter isn’t the one guarded by the fucking Kingslayer and by a dozen of other fucking great lords and sers.”

All at once, Davos’ fingers burned as the day Stannis had shortened them, and he instinctively twisted on himself, meeting Stannis’ smile.

That was why it was all so unreal. Davos wasn’t there – he was in Cape Wrath, in Marya’s arms, dreaming. For sure.


	126. The albatross

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JAIME'S POV

His back to the bitter deep, his gaze enraptured by the sails swinging in the bluest sky he had ever seen, Jaime let the wind ruffle his hair, inhaling deeply, to catch a drop of her scent in the damp breeze - but she was so far from him, now. Her last kiss, so damn hasty... The albatross' shit almost hit him, splatting on the rail, oily and mocking white, like Jaime's cloak. With all probabilities, the damned bird knew that she was far from him even when she was close to him. Forcefully.

“You should take off your cloak and armor, Jaime, now that we're offshore”, said nuncle Gery with his captain's voice.

Jaime didn't answer, and kept on staring at the sails, and at the albatross. _Such an ugly bird, and clumsy when the sailors force him on the deck of a ship, waddling like stupid gooses, yet when he flies... His wings are so large, his wings can bring him wherever he wants... Hey, stupid goose with wide wings, if I promise not to call you again stupid goose, would you take me back to her?_

“Jaime, even the seagulls have understood that you're fond of your candid cloak and plate”, nuncle Gery insisted, “Time to take them off. Keep your sword, if you want, but no steel-men on my ship. The sea despises steel-men, and eats them whole.”

He shrugged. “I'm a kingsguard, nuncle.”

“I'm a kingsguard”, Gerion mimicked Jaime, making his curls dance in the sunlit. They had the same length of Jaime's hair, and the same gold. Jaime wasn't still twenty-five, though, whilst the man facing him was old, past the mid of his thirties, and suddenly his eyes turned the serious, boring green of all old men. “You're a kingsguard, Jaime, and you'll remain a kingsguard even without those fucking cloak and armor, so take them off. Immediately.”

Jaime decisively preferred when uncle Gerion acted like Lord Tywin's younger, always merry, brother, and not like the annoying king of a realm wide like a ship. Yet, he obeyed, the albatross' shrieks above him resounding unpleasant like the captain's words. He was a kingsguard, he would always be a kingsguard - but when she was in his arms, willing and sweated, her hair weaved to his, she was no more the Queen, and he was only Jaime, the sea separating them being only an abstraction, in the end.

The sea was actually an abstraction, now that Jaime had finally brought the wench at the entrance of the harbor.

Another one of King's Landing tricks.

 _The capital has a port, a river port, not a proper harbor, that's the reason it stinks so much_ , uncle Gerion had explained to Jaime in that same day he had obliged him to leave his armor and his cloak below deck.

The kingsguard smiled. His uncle had told him so many things aboard the Laughing Lion, before greeting him in Oldtown, and becoming a memory.

 _Probably nuncle Gerion would have liked the wench, despite her faults,_ Jaime realized, with a sudden urge to half-turn his head, and ask her if her father had ever got uncle Gerion's letter, but he kept silent, and still. The wench was too young to know, and Jaime wasn't even sure that his uncle had ever sent that letter. Once, during a dinner, Gerion Lannister, the youngest of Lord Tywin's brothers, had hinted to join the Evenstar in one of his sea travels, but he had quickly changed matter, when the lord of the Rock had glared at him - or so Tyrion had told Jaime.

A pity Gerion hadn't really sailed for Tarth, in the end. Jaime would have been glad to bring Joy to her father, certainly more glad than he was right now, bringing a certain, sullen lady to her likewise sullen father. Hopefully, the wench was a bit less sullen than usual, that day.

She had given up to her stupid attempt of grabbing to the saddle and slipped her arms around his waist, as soon as they had crossed the remains of the Mud Gate and, well, he was far from blaming her.

Outside the city, the ruins were quite impressive, indeed. Even for a brave wench.

No more traces of the hovels clinging like ivy on the walls, replaced by the lingering reek of a broken world that the rain had only accentuated. The rain had made the colors brighter, though, for a sort of mocking compensation. The embroideries in cloth-of-gold on the Tyrell boy's cloak shone, so the flames on Addam's chest, and all the other rich details of the knights' garbs. So many living colors for a rotting place. Jaime's clothes were more fit for it, with their lifeless white, and they're grown damp, like the wench's, so he was grateful for the clumsy warmth of her touch, whilst he was wondering if he had took the right decision that morning.

He had chosen to wear just a plain steel chestplate, instead of the usual full armor, all gold and rubies and lions, and he had worn it over a short shirt-mail, with no faulds or tassets to cover his waist and thighs, in order to ride lightweight and swift, until the wench had decided she had to muddle up his plans. The stubborn maid and her damned dress surely weighted like Jaime, if not more - her fingers were thick like sausages, and surprisingly floaty on the velvet of his doublet, at the beginning, before they spotted the first small wave of folks. Then a second, a third wave, and Brienne's fingers grew digging into the tissue, as if the velvet might stem the sea of people, gathered in front of the modest building, that the harbor people used as their Sept.

Some beggars, crippled men reduced to hunger, many elders with the worn leather face of sea-men, an idler in the vivid colors of a Bravoosi underneath the statue of the Maiden, and a lot of women. Women, they were mostly women, young and fair or old and toothless, many of them heavy with child, all of them carrying a baby or holding the hand of a child. Often surrounded by children. A lot of snotty children, staring at the little company of knights with eyes as big as the bronze medallion hanging from the statue of the Smith, that was shimmering, in contrast with the the portal of the Sept, gray, and eroded by the salt.

“Why have they brought all the statues outside the Sept?”, the wench asked him, feigning a calm she hadn't. Again, her fingers betrayed her, and her breathes, short and humid on the skin of Jaime's neck.

“The smallfolk often do it, when they're too many to get all inside the Sept. For the Mother's day, for a wedding...”

“This isn't a wedding”, she murmured, the Blackwater's voice being louder than hers.

“Such a brilliant intuition, wench”, Jaime retorted. The rough wooden coffins were in plain sight, disposed right at the end of the stairs leading to the portal of the Sept, between the statues of the Mother and the Father - the Stranger, painted in black and faceless, placed not too far from them, however. _But the Stranger is never far_ , he was pondering, when the wench moved, tilting her head, and a few strands of pale hair were falling now down his chest, as if they were Jaime's own hair. To the sailors aboard the ships oddly crowding in the middle of the Blackwater Rush Jaime must look something between a maiden and a warrior, a weird, mythological creature unknown even to the maesters of the Citadel. “Wench, what the hell are you...?”

“We have to dismount, and pay homage.”

The wench's hands hinted at leaving him and he grasped them with his left, the right hand still holding the bridles. He ought to wear the full armor, now he was sure about it, and bring a gag. A nice gag instead of an useless voile, and Jaime wouldn't have been obliged to hear such a crap - because, at the point in which they were, no matter how hard he tried, but he wasn't able to imagine something stupider than stopping there, to homage some dead people that the thick-headed wench hadn't even ever met, with the appealing chance of exciting the crowd, when the crowd was so lovely and quiet, for a change.

He opened his mouth to give the wench an appropriate reply, and a gust of wind filled it with the savor of the sea, brought from the bay, fresh and salty like Brienne's smell, and his golden hair got weaved with her flax. Just for an instant, no more, the instant later Jaime was already dismounting, and helping her to dismount, incinerating with his glare the wench's try to thank him.

Addam pulled the reins, and dismounted, either him, soon followed by the other knights. “Well, we knew from the very beginning we had to participate at a funeral”, he joked, his brown eyes nervously darting from face to face.

“A few minutes, the time of a prayer, no more”, Jaime replied, and gave Honor's bridles to the brown-haired cunt, needing both his hands, one to support the wench in her uncertain walking, one to unsheathe the sword, in case of troubles. Not that the smallfolk seemed to want troubles. The crowd opened to let them pass, bashfully, slowly, and slowly they reached the first coffin, bare and plain, still smelling of pine and resin. Jaime's nose wrinkled.

“ 't was my man, m'lady”, a dried-eyed woman said, and the child in her arms stopped sucking her thumb. “Lewyn, his mother called him, for he was black-haired, like the prince.” At the widow's side, a gray-haired woman sobbed. “But to me, 't was Lew. Only Lew.”

“Lew”, Brienne whispered, dull.

“My grandson's name was Gerry, m'lady”, another woman said, grabbing one of Brienne's sleeves. An inoffensive crone. But the wench stupidly took the wrinkled hands of the crone in hers, and the lazy litany of the Septon was soon overcome by the endless litany of names, Artie, Barry, Oz, more and more names the women said and repeated, and repeated, leaning to reach for Brienne's gown, or Brienne's hair, as if repeating them till nausea and touching the wench could change something, and make the coffins smell only of pine and resin. The heavy fabric of her dress resisted strenuously, but when Jaime heard the ripping sound of a sleeve being half-torn off, he decided the game had lasted enough.

“We're leaving”, Jaime whispered in the wench's ear, spying an alarmed look on Lord Caron's face. Even the red-haired Lord had noticed the Bravoosi and the hilt, shimmering on the red leather belt, running a bit too loose on his horrible, striped breeches. The wench made an odd, chocked gasp, and Jaime realized that he was holding her too tightly, and let her go.

He had stupidly let her go.

A bunch of children stepped noisily between them, with their mothers and grand-mothers, and, in a blink, she was already up the stairs of the Sept, near an open-mouthed Septon, her hands clutching to the small, temporary altar they had erected for the Smith, a black spot on the white altar cloth, her eyes large as the statue's painted eyes, looking straight into Jaime's.

“No blades”, the wench had pleaded before being dragged away, and her eyes were still pleading. Jaime began moving, careful not to shove with too much haste the hypnotized women, and the men, because now there were even men, dock men, thick, with hard features. A twist, and he saw Addam, next to Arys, and Hyle Hunt on Honor. All the knights had mounted back their horses, but they were scattered like leaves, regrouping little by little - and that wasn't so bad, because he could decide where to bring Brienne till the very last moment.

Another twist, and Jaime saw her pulling the heavy necklace, until the ribbon yielded, and Renly's fucking pearls passed into the spotted hands of the Septon.

“For Lew's daughter”, Brienne said, getting rid of the stupid voile, and the ginger sailor in front of Jaime raised a bony girl on his shoulders, warning her to hush. “For every orphan of the port”, the Maid of Tarth said louder, leaning her back to the altar to support herself, and speak to the widows. A drop of sweat ran down her temple, rolling down the cheek, to her jawline, until it fell from her skin, in the neat air. “Use the pearls to fed the children, and the diamonds to replace the ships you've lost, and gain your bread, day by day, may the Smith help you. Take also these two.” With an unexpected, almost graceful, movement, she posed at the Smith's feet two twin daggers that were sewed inside the huge sleeves of her dress, the dark glimmering of the blades leaving no doubts about their origin - but the skinny girl left behind by Jaime was more interested in the voile the breeze had gifted her, giggling at the smoothness of the black silk. “Sell them, they're Valyrian steel, survived the First Dornish War and the Dragon's Wroth, and they're worth a dozen ships.”

 _Much more, if my Father is made aware of their existence_ , thought Jaime, climbing up the first step.

“Ships! And how these feeble women are supposed to do with ships, m'lady?”, someone yelled, as Jaime put his boot on the second step. He glimpsed back, and saw a tall, dark-haired man, who didn't look a fisherman, nor a lowborn, and who had the stony accent of a Valeman.

“To die, the king's ward wants them to die at sea, as their men did, to fill the drunkard king's fat belly”, shouted another scum, his words bouncing on the cobblestones and on the astonished wooden statues, and Jaime's fingers itched terribly. “That's what m'lady want. Throw us those lovely daggers, Septon, and let us show m'lady and her pretty escort what we want.” Now the scum was in Jaime's line of sight, and he looked very like the scum who had talked before him, and there were other sellswords. Two, almost crossing ser Bushy's path. Five, dogging the unaware Lord Royce and his sons – Lord Caron, with ser Loras and the other reachers, having already finished somehow close to the docks, and the water. Wearing too heavy armors to survive a nice dive. The white cloak yanked a short merchant and made three steps in one, when someone put his hand on the hand Jaime had on the hilt of his sword.

Someone who wore horrible striped breeches, a baffling smile, and a very short life still to live.

Someone who had a very thin blade, pointed to Jaime's guts, and a very painful life still to live.

“Don't move, ser, just use your eyes, and see”, the Bravoosi said in whisper, clicking his teeth - and that was the exact moment in which the albatross decided to spread his wings, and fly.

**Author's Note:**

> It's a very silly fic, written in a wretched english. Hope you enjoy it.


End file.
